


If Two Sides Collapse Where Will We Be

by prettygirllostt



Series: If Two Sides Collapse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock returns home, it isn't what John expected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygirllostt/pseuds/prettygirllostt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five weeks after Sherlock jumps, John gets a call telling him Sherlock is alive. It isn't what he is expecting and the road ahead is a long one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Home on Baker Street (John decides he will return home)

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock, of course, read John as he’d read the paper. With a quick glance and superior knowledge. That didn’t change the fact that they leaned together as two parts of a bridge, only sturdy with their other half.

John got the call from Mycroft 5 weeks after Sherlock had died. He hadn’t heard from the eldest Holmes brother since the night before Sherlock dove off the roof and he was rather surprised Mycroft felt it safe to call at all.   
“What? No big display of power?” he spat as he answered.  
He’d moved out of Baker Street only days after he’d lost Sherlock and now he sat in his bland and small flat with his phone angrily pressed to his ear.   
“John, I’ve said I am sorry for….everything,” Mycroft sounded soft as if he were somewhere private and John slammed his fist into the table.  
“It’s not enough,” he said roughly.  
“I know. That’s why I’m calling. Sherlock is alive, John. He’s alive, but he needs you.”   
John let the words sink in. The world around him seemed to reel. For the last 4 weeks he’d been searching for Sherlock. It had been a clumsy search without any help, but he held out hope that his friend was still alive and simply playing an elaborate joke. He still wanted to punch the man for even jumping to begin with, but he would be relieved to punch a live man than mourn a dead one. He closed his eyes.  
“And you waited this long to tell me?”  
Mycroft seemed to sigh before answering. “I couldn’t find him. I know my brother and his need to be seen, but he seemed to have found a way to be hidden from me until recently.”   
“What changed?” John refused to be moved by Mycroft’s brotherly affection and stuck to the facts.  
“I’m afraid he got shot,” Mycroft replied.  
John saw red. He knew Sherlock lived a dangerous life, but at least when they’d been side by side, he could push the man out of the way or take the bullet for him. It might not have been a healthy lifestyle, but the world could do without a John Watson, John just wasn’t sure it would keep turning without the great Sherlock Holmes.   
“John?” Mycroft asked.   
John sat in a silence for a few more seconds before replying.  
“Where is he?” he asked calmly.  
“Dublin, though I do wish to have him moved back to Baker Street where I can watch him. He’s in a coma at the moment, but in home care is easy to attain,” Mycroft sniffed.  
John put his head in his hand and cursed Sherlock Holmes and his idiot tendencies.   
“Where was he shot?”  
“In the head, I’m afraid. Turned quickly enough to not have killed him, but not enough to stop his body from…shutting down. Or so it seems from the report. He did kill the man he meant to find,” Mycroft added as an after thought.  
“What was he doing?” John could hear the strain in his own voice but Mycroft brushed him off.  
“I can’t discuss this now, John I have a meeting to attend. The Middle East is in a tangle again and I must help it unwind. I simply wanted you to know my brother is alive, if not well, and that putting that bullet in your brain would be ill timed, indeed. I expect you to be at Baker Street in three days. My brother will need you. Goodbye.”   
John stared at the table for a long time before he managed to let the words fully sink in. Sherlock wasn’t dead, but he was as close as he could be while still having a pulse. John leaned on his elbows, the phone still clutched in his hands. He would be back at Baker Street, of course he would. Sherlock was coming home and he needed John. John let the tears slip down his cheeks. He’d searched and searched while the police struggled to catch up with what he and Sherlock already knew. There was no Richard Brooke, only a fake person created to destroy a great man.  
Moriarty had been found dead on the rooftop and it seemed the British government was now taking down the web Moriarty had created.   
John closed his eyes as he remembered a particularly brutal conversation with Sally Donavan. 

“He did, it John! What did I tell you? A freak. I’m glad he ended it himself,” her voice had been so high and mighty and John had been so angry.  
“He didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t hurt anyone. He was a good man and you destroyed him,” John had snarled.  
Lestrade had walked in in that moment but it was simply too late.   
“He was a freak. I told you. Take up fishing, don’t stay around Sherlock Holmes,” she was goading him on.  
John had slammed his fist down into the table so hard the room seemed to shake and Sally had jumped. Lestrade had simply rubbed his hand across his face as if hoping it would all end soon.  
“Moriarty did this, you’ll see. It will come out. Richard Brooke never existed and the man you blamed for his crimes died to save us all.”  
It was true, of course. Sherlock had recorded the whole thing on his phone which had been retrieved from the roof when they found Moriarty. John hadn’t been allowed to hear it, but when Lestrade found out, he made sure he got to listen. He’d emerged from the room with Sally Donovan who seemed shaken, and had clapped John on the shoulder with tears in his eyes. He hadn’t said a word, but John had known. Sherlock had died for him.   
What an odd relationship they’d had, John had thought. He would die for Sherlock and Sherlock had died for him. He remembered Irene Adler, The Woman, telling him that he and Sherlock were a couple. Telling him, without all the words, that he and Sherlock were two halves of one whole. That John loved the detective and maybe, if he paid attention, he would see that Sherlock loved him in return.  
It was true that they had known one another. John could read Sherlock’s moods on his face and knew the unspoken questions before they were asked. Sherlock, of course, read John as he’d read the paper. With a quick glance and superior knowledge. That didn’t change the fact that they leaned together as two parts of a bridge, only sturdy with their other half.

Now, John wonders how Mycroft knew about the gun he’d nearly put in his mouth for a week straight. He knows Sherlock will need him and that’s all he needed to hear. In the back of his mind he has grudging respect for Mycroft and the way he plays the game. Sliding the gun back into the desk drawer, he begins to ready himself to return to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2: Before I Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And still, it’s always dark.   
> Sherlock can’t escape his own mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the tense for one reason. I wanted it to show John's life restarting when he finds out Sherlock is alive but in need of help. From now on, it will stay in present tense.

It was always dark it seemed. He could feel movement but simply couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything. There was a whine in his ears that wouldn’t give up and he tried to shake it away. He couldn’t move. The dark was immobilizing. Swallowing him whole. He could do nothing but wait.   
The dreams felt real and it was only then that he could see his own skin. Blood on his hands from someone he loved and when he looked down, he held the knife. Someone laughed and someone cried. It was nearly too bright and then suddenly so inky dark he felt he was wading through it.   
He couldn’t run, could only walk. His feet stuck to the sidewalk, sinking in if he stood still. He had to keep moving. Someone was waiting for him. They always followed. Always. He couldn’t break the pattern. He was a rat in a maze. He was the same as the devil. The stars turned in the sky and laughed at him before winking out.   
“I’ll meet you in hell,” he hears over and over.  
And still, it’s always dark.   
Sherlock can’t escape his own mind. 

John finds his way to Baker Street easily enough. When he gets there, Mycroft is waiting, umbrella in hand. He smiles. John doesn’t return the gesture. They both seem to wait.  
“I am sorry, John,” he says.  
“Yeah,” John replies.   
“He’s inside, but I feel I must warn you. They aren’t sure he’ll wake up. The only thing we can do is wait, I’m afraid.”  
John glares before pushing past Mycroft. The flat is quiet with no sign of Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft follows John inside and answers the unspoken question.  
“Mrs. Hudson has been generously rewarded for her connection to my brother and will continue to reside in Baker Street with you to help take care of Sherlock. If it ever becomes too much, she is free to leave.”   
“England would fall,” John murmurs as he starts up the stairs.  
The flat looks the same and John has to pause for a moment to ease the pain in his chest. He nearly sits on the floor as he looks over the books with their slight layer of dust and the chairs that have clearly missed their owners. He can hear a machine beeping in Sherlock’s room but he can’t make himself take the steps yet.  
“Oh, John, you’ve made it,” Mrs. Hudson scurries into the room with her face drawn.  
John hasn’t seen the landlady since Sherlock’s funeral and he feels a pang of guilt for not having contacted her until today.   
“Yes…I…” he can’t seem to get the apology out and Mrs. Hudson simply smiles and pats his hand.  
“I know, dear. He’s in his room. He looks a fright but they’ve promised good care,” she says.  
Mycroft enters the room at a slow stroll and John can feel the temperature drop at the entrance.   
“May I speak with you?” he asks carefully.  
“I supposed you might wish to,” Mycroft replies, gesturing to Sherlock’s room.  
“Not…” John hesitates.  
“Sleeping men tell no tales, John. There is no need to be afraid,” Mycroft nearly huffs.  
John can’t stand the challenge in the older Holme’s voice and he follows the man into Sherlock’s room.  
Sherlock looks different. John didn’t know what he’d expected to find but what he sees hurts. Sherlock looks drawn and the look on his still face seems scared. His cheeks are drawn and his body is still. John, who had hardly ever seen Sherlock sit still, feels dread in his chest. He turns away from the empty shell of his friend and looks at Mycroft.  
It’s clear Mycroft can see the pain in John’s features as he sits on the edge of the bed. Machines attached to Sherlock beep and chirp but Mycroft ignores it.   
“As you must have guessed, Sherlock did what he did for you as well as for the others he cares about. He did indeed jump, but survived thanks to some key people. Molly Hooper came to me the day after the fall to admit her part and from there, I searched. I heard whispers of him across the world but could not grasp him. He was hunting down the web Moriarty had created to keep everyone safe. He managed to find the key points we couldn’t find and through Ms. Hooper, he got the information we were missing to us. He saved the people he cares for as well as the British Empire. He was shot by a man called Moran. Moran is now dead.”   
John was shaking.   
“Why didn’t he tell me?” he asks, "Why tell Molly, but not me?"   
“I have been informed you haven’t listened to the recording. Moriarty was threatening to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Detective Lestrade if Sherlock didn’t jump to his death. When Moriarty swallowed the bullet, there was no way for Sherlock to help. He saved you by lying to you. It seems we can deduce one thing about his heart,” Mycroft rubs his eyes and John can see his exhaustion, “he did care deeply about you, Doctor.”


	3. In Dreams We Find Our Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boy, the little boy Sherlock, looks up with sad eyes that seem to pulse to a steady beat, “He died of a broken heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but I felt it needed to stand on its own. The rest will probably be longer.

John is livid. He’s angry at Mycroft, at Molly and now at Sherlock for thinking he needed protecting. He sits at Sherlock’s bedside for a long time in the night, hoping for a miracle.  
“In the morning they’ll be coming to check in on you,” he tells his sleeping friend, “and they’ll know if you’ll ever wake up or if we should simply give up.”  
He waits for a moment, listening to the beeping. Finally, he leans forward, sliding his palm against Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock's skin feels like sand paper and John wets his lips.  
“I…I asked for a miracle and you’ve given me one, but this doesn’t count. Don’t be dead. Come back. You need to come back.”  
His voice breaks and he leans forward. Sherlock doesn’t move. There is no miracle tonight. He rubs his hand in his hair and sighs. They’ve placed Sherlock on the right side of the bed and John can fit in the space on the left. There are no wires, no fluids and no machines on the left. John feels it is a bit too neat. He leans back on the cool and unused pillow, musing about Mrs. Hudson and the clean sheets. When he closes his eyes, the sound of labored breathing accompanies his dreams. 

The moon is gone. It’s lying on the ground in pieces.   
“He died of a broken heart.”  
The voice is sad. It is young. A little boy pulls on his hand. Black curls and bright greenish eyes stare up at John. John is in uniform. He has no limp, no pain.   
“He died of a broken heart,” the boy says once more.  
There’s blood leaking from his mouth. John kneels. The moon shards are sharp as glass. Neither wear shoes. Blood seeps between his toes. He looks at the young boy.  
“Open,” he says kindly, prodding at the boy’s mouth.  
He opens his mouth. There are broken teeth. A heartbeat flows through John’s fingers. He feels as if he’s on fire.  
“I’m a sociopath. What are you?” the boy asks.  
The moon is melting beneath them, mixing with the blood on their toes.   
“I’m a solider,” John replies.   
The boy, the little boy Sherlock, looks up with sad eyes that seem to pulse to a steady beat, “He died of a broken heart.”

John jerks awake. He finds his head resting on Sherlock’s chest, his heartbeat a drum in his ears. He sighs and turns onto his side, hoping to move away from the nightmares.

It is always dark. Sherlock has stopped being surprised by it. There is something sticky in his hair. Sticky and warm. He’s bleeding. He’s been shot. Again.  
“See you in hell.”   
He turns when someone touches him. Molly Hooper. Her whimpers are screams of regret. Sherlock covers his ears. He still hears her sobbing.   
“I don’t need you,” he says.  
The screams don’t stop. He curls into himself. He feels as if someone is lying on his chest. His heart is racing. He isn’t alone.  
The blood in his hair leaks to his eyes. He doesn’t wipe it away. The road begins to bubble and he begins to sink.  
Run.  
“See you in hell.”  
Molly cries and Sherlock bleeds. There is nothing left but this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for commenting and giving kudos :) it helps me to continue!


	4. Don't Let Go Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gestures towards Sherlock’s room. Mycroft gives him a small smirk as he goes by. John wonders if punching Mycroft would be a bad thing.

John wakes in the morning with his hand still in Sherlock’s. He stares at the ceiling for a time, listening to the machines beep and whirl. His head is pounding and his dream is a blur. All he can remember are bright green eyes. He sits up and finds himself in his clothes from the night before.  
“Right,” he mutters to himself.   
Peering over at Sherlock, he leans forward to look at his head. The bullet had grazed the right side of his head and was wrapped tightly. Mycroft had only let them shave the one spot and dark curls burst from the left side of his head. John hasn’t managed to make himself look at the bullet wound yet and he stands on shaky legs. Today, he will find out if his hope will once again be stripped away.   
He makes tea and Mrs. Hudson brings up biscuits. They sit at the now clear table in silence.  
“Don’t worry dear, he always has more up his sleeve,” she says finally.   
John doesn’t respond and the silence in 221B seems to ring across London.  
The paper apologizes for their treatment of Sherlock but John can’t see past the first line. They destroyed him as well. They had listened to the lies and had allowed it to happen. John can still see the smug smile of the reporter who housed Moriarty. His heart beat with trust in Sherlock Holmes and anyone who said a word against his brilliance was already on John’s bad side.   
John slams the paper down onto the table, spilling his tea. Mrs. Hudson jumps.  
“I’m sure it won’t be so bad,” she says.  
John stands and walks to the window. He looks out at London and sees when the truck pulls up. Mycroft steps from his sleek black car and looks up. He raises his hand before moving to the door. John can’t help but feel the anger like liquid in his lungs. He coughs and waits.   
Mycroft doesn’t knock, but John isn’t expecting him to. They stare at one another until Mycroft breaks.   
“You will have to find a new room to sleep in,” he states.  
John is surprised. He wasn’t expecting that to be the first thing the elder Holmes brother says.   
“Why?” he asks, perplexed.  
“Because live in care needs to live somewhere,” Mycroft snaps.   
John hears them on the stairs before he sees them. The first man is clearly the doctor and John nods as he moves into the room.  
“Ah, Doctor Moore, this is Doctor Watson, my brother’s….friend,” Mycroft manages to curl the word like an insult and John frowns.   
Doctor Moore holds out his hand and John shakes it. They size each other up for a moment until Doctor Moore smiles grimly.   
“I’ve been assured the best care,” John says quickly.  
“Yes, well, let’s get to it,” Doctor Moore looks around the room and Mrs. Hudson flutters her hands as if wishing she could suddenly clean the flat.   
John gestures towards Sherlock’s room. Mycroft gives him a small smirk as he goes by. John wonders if punching Mycroft would be a bad thing.   
“Always such a git,” he mutters under his breath as he follows the two men.  
When they enter the room, silence falls. Sherlock looks worse than the night before if it’s possible and Doctor Moore clears his throat.  
He is a reedy man with long legs, watery blue eyes and hardly any hair. He manages to look like a child’s stick figure drawing in a lab coat and John can’t stand him. He knows even before the bandage is unwound that it’s bad and he knows before the Doctor’s hands turn the machines what he will say.  
“He was shot at an angle that suggests he won’t wake up. I would suggest you let him go,” Doctor Moore says.  
It is such a simple sentence to fill John with such rage. This man who didn’t know Sherlock, who hadn’t seen the life the man embodied was telling John it was time to let go. People knew Sherlock was stubborn, but John could be just as bad.  
“No,” he says firmly.   
Mycroft lets out a loud sigh and Doctor Moore turns roughly.  
“This man will never wake up. His brain isn’t strong enough. Keeping him alive will only make you mourn longer,” the doctor says harshly.   
John pulls back his fist before he even notices he’s doing it. Mrs. Hudson cries out from the doorway. Mycroft catches the fist deftly and lowers it.   
“I will not let Sherlock go that easily and I’m ashamed that you think I would,” he says clearly.   
Doctor Moore huffs. John turns but Mycroft beats him to it.   
“Thank you doctor. I will still be attaining in home care for my brother until I find a more permanent solution. We will take your thoughts into consideration.”   
The elegant speech is not lost on the doctor, who stands taller and lifts his nose before nodding. He takes his leave without a word. Mycroft gestures and Mrs. Hudson scurries into the room.  
“Mrs. Hudson, if you would be so kind as to call those men in the van up, they will being to set up for their stay,” he says kindly.  
John is shaking. He hadn’t realized he was shaking when he tried to hit Mycroft but now he could feel it. There is a tremble in his palm.   
Mycroft nods at John before perching at the end of Sherlock’s bed. The beeping of the machines seems louder still and John can’t help but grumble.   
“I will not let anyone take Sherlock away until you are certain,” Mycroft is saying.  
John sits on the left beside Sherlock and waits.  
“Right. You wish to know what my brother was doing and why,” Mycroft says.  
John nods.  
“He was hunting down the web Moriarty had left in light of his death. He knew the names of people he needed to find and so he hunted them down. He wanted to make sure everyone he loved was safe, so he only told Ms. Hooper so she could help him. She came to me. He wasn’t pleased from what I gathered. He didn’t want any of us to know until it was over. A week ago, he found Sebastian Moran and killed him, but not before the man shot him as well. Now, we have found the rest of the web and it is safe to have Sherlock home once more. I do ask that you refrain from telling the others quite yet. It isn’t time. Of course, your lifestyle will be supported while you live here and you may continue to work. My brother needs you, John. Don’t let him go yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have no fear, Sherlock will wake up soon enough. I'm having fun writing the dreams, but don't worry. We'll have our Sherlock back soon.


	5. Chapter 5: If I should Die....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell isn’t burning fire, Sherlock knows. Moriarty smiles. Opening his hands, Sherlock can see John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about comas or medicine and am reaching pretty much into my TV knowledge to create these scenes. Please don't be offended if it doesn't make complete sense.
> 
> The start of this chapter is a bit slow and kind of rough. I went through it again and edited it some, so I hope it sounds better!

“Don’t let him go yet?” John asks Mycroft as if Mycroft was suddenly spouting Chinese.  
“Don’t…let him…yet. Jesus. Did you ever think I really would?” John runs his fingers through his hair in his agitation.  
“Loving my brother is not for the faint at heart,” Mycroft says.  
John feels the heat rush in his chest. He feels the need to take a shot at Mycroft once more, but he refrains.  
“I never…” he ducks his head and sighs before speaking again, “I never said that.”  
“Do you have to?” Mycroft stands and moves like the Queen of England herself before turning once more.  
“Oh and John, try not to be too angry with him if he does open his eyes. He’s spent the last 5 weeks thinking of you, no doubt. My brother might seem strong, but he can shatter if his heart breaks.”  
John’s head shoots up as he remembers his dream. The small boy. Sherlock. His words. He has nothing to say as Mycroft leaves the flat and is instead left with the beeping of the machines and the sounds of men moving into his room. Closing his eyes, he leans back for a moment before standing. He is angry. So angry. The man in the bed isn't Sherlock. He's been robbed of his ability to fight. It doesn't seem right to yell at a shell. He quivers.  
Placing his hand on Sherlock’s arm he sighs. “Just…come back. For me. Even if it isn’t for anyone else. Just. Do this for me. I don't care what you were doing. I need you back.” 

John is alone. That much has been obvious since he watched his friend fall to his death. He went to the pub with papers under his arm and he shooed away the barmaid who leaned too far over the counter so he could see the darker pink of her nipples. He is alone and he keeps himself that way. Sherlock is lying in a bed in Baker Street and he is sitting alone in a pub, waiting for something that might never happen.  
“Life doesn’t change, does it?” he asks the barmaid who seems surprised.  
“No. No, I suppose it doesn’t,” she shrugs.  
He drops his money onto the counter and smiles grimly at her before standing to go back to 221B and the man he hoped would live. 

John is angry. That much is also obvious. He can feel it shaking in his shoulders and down his spine. He moves around the flat as if he’s walking on coals and in the silence he feels it growing. The in home care is working well but they don’t speak to John. They move past him as if he’s a ghost in his own home. He seems to have frightened Mrs. Hudson away with his furious silence and now he is angry and alone. Some things didn’t change. As the rage boils in his chest, he reads the paper and pretends to care about the world outside. 

Sherlock could feel the darkness now. It was like sweat the way it ran down his arms and leaked along his legs. Molly was screaming again. It was almost tedious. The fear seemed long gone but the blood wasn’t. It pooled at his feet and he sunk into the ground.  
He wasn’t in London. It was too dark, too hot and too much to be the city he’d thrived in. Thrived. Funny word for his life. Molly screams.  
“Meet you in hell, detective.”  
The voice is nearly seductive but it isn’t right. Maybe it isn’t the darkness licking his heels. He feels hands around his wrists but he can’t move. Can’t even walk anymore.  
“I’m in hell,” he responds.  
“No,” and now he can see the shape of the man who’s body had laid in blood at his feet, “no, you aren’t yet, but you will be.” He very nearly sings. The insane consulting criminal.  
“STAYING ALIVE,” Moriarty shouts. There’s a hole in his head, Sherlock can see. It doesn’t bleed. His left eye is nearly gone and his right seems too dark.  
Hell isn’t burning fire, Sherlock knows. Moriarty smiles. Opening his hands, Sherlock can see John.  
“Don’t you wish you were dead, or do you wish, hope, dream….well….you know…that you could return to your beloved pet?” Moriarty smiles so wide, his skull splits.  
The dark is receding and the world is bleak. Sherlock feels nothing when he looks at John but that isn’t right. The sidewalk is swallowing him. He’s in up to his knees.  
“Let go, my dear friend and shake my hand in hell. John Watson will not love you like I do. Bless your damned soul,” Moriarty kisses Sherlock’s palm with bloody lips. Sherlock doesn’t recoil. He should. He knows he should. The dark is gone. It’s blood running down his legs. Blood on his hands. Blood filling his mouth and eyes. He sees the evil smile and thinks only for a moment of John.  
As the sidewalk swallows his waist, he sees John. John with an outstretched hand. John careening forward. John begging him to be a miracle. Moriarty is nothing more than bones now and he shakes.  
“See you in hell.” 

John hears the machine scream. Flat line. He's watched enough bad telly to know that. He runs. He can’t breathe and he runs. He doesn’t know he calls for Mrs. Hudson and he doesn’t feel her hands trying to pull him from the bedside. He does feel the needle in his arm as one of them men, David maybe, something with a D, pulls him back. His view blurs and David (Donald, Derek….something) says sharply, “Let us do our job!”

John dreams in reds and greys. It’s almost like an old film he showed Sherlock once but louder. Sherlock is standing in front of him. No coat, only a dark purple shirt and his usual slacks. He smiles that slow, half smirk he gives when he’s right. John reels back to punch him but Sherlock shakes his head.  
“Save it,” he says. John lowers his fist.  
The sun is dripping down his spine. It tingles and John shifts.  
“You get used to it, honestly. At least it’s somewhat brighter in your head,” Sherlock squints. He has his hands in his pockets.  
“You aren’t…” John trails off. He seems to be sticking to the sidewalk.  
“No. No, I’m only in your head but don’t worry, I’m not dead,” Sherlock grins.  
John tries to lift his feet. A gun goes off somewhere. Somewhere close, someone screams. Sherlock sighs.  
“I’m getting sick of that,” Sherlock says.  
John feels the yank on his hand and looks down at the little boy. Bloody teeth, broken and falling. He doesn’t smile, simply opens his mouth.  
“You’re a soldier. I’m nothing,” the boy says.  
John kneels. “You’re special,” he says.  
Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter. John can see the blood all over his friend. He looks back to the boy. The boy with the sharp features and the brilliant eyes.  
“He died of a broken heart,” the boy says mournfully.  
“He won’t,” John says vigorously.  
“He might,” Moriarty speaks from somewhere near John’s ear.  
Sherlock has sunk to his waist in the sidewalk. John tries to walk forward. Sherlock puts out his hand. The boy is walking away covered in the shards of moon while the sun melts along his hands. It’s funny how the rays look like gumdrops when they slither down his skin.  
John looks up and forces his feet to move.  
“Run,” Sherlock whispers.  
John leans close. Touches the bloody side of Sherlock’s head. Looks into the eyes of the man who had changed his life.  
“No,” he says.  
Sherlock cries tears made of diamonds and John catches them in his palms as his body wakes and he is peeled away from the only person he wants to be near. 

John wakes lying in a mess on the floor. David (his name doesn’t matter) is leaning over him.  
“I’m sorry,” he says. John spits in his face. He is so angry. It's irrational, he knows, but it curls in his veins like fire and he snarls.  
David frowns and wipes it away. “I’m sorry,” he tries again, “that I had to do that. You were in the way.”  
“Sherlock?” John asks. He is shaking.  
“Is alive for now,” he answers stiffly.  
“Get out,” John stands on unstable legs but the words are rough and obvious. David nods.  
They all bustle out quickly, David wiping the spit from his face with the back of his hand. John wobbles forward to look at the face of his friend.  
He is furious. Furious for the lies and livid for the dream Sherlock who would think he would run. He wants to hurt this man. This man who isn't a man. Who isn't Sherlock and might never be again. He leans close to Sherlock’s face. He can feel the thin line of air coming from Sherlock’s mouth. He despises it.  
“Why couldn’t you just live? Just be clever like always? Tell me, I would have followed. I would have done anything you asked. You and your need to defy death. Have the last word.”  
Sherlock doesn’t stir. John isn’t expecting him to. He knows.  
He shakes.  
“Why must you be like this? This…broken thing. This isn’t you. And god Sherlock, what was that? Was that your idea of a joke? Covered in blood, telling me to run? As if I would ever run from you. Did you know Mycroft worried? Did you know he ruined your life and then felt something about it? Did you know what you were doing to us?”  
Sherlock doesn’t even twitch. John feels the anger in his bones.  
“Did you know?” he bellows, “Did you know it would rip my bloody heart out? Did you know you would destroy our lives along with your own? Jesus, Sherlock the whole world doesn’t revolve around you but mine did!”  
He knows they’re all in the living room. The telly isn’t on and he knows people like to listen to someone elses world falling apart. Mrs. Hudson is at the door but John ignores her worried face.  
“My life…you were my whole life. You changed my world. I’m so angry with you and I miss you so much. Why don’t you just come back?”  
He sounds broken but he isn’t anywhere near done. He slams his fist into the wall. Sherlock’s bed shakes. The man doesn’t move.  
“Did you feel amazing when he spoke to you? Were you brilliant? Did he pat you on the back before you leapt to your death. Fuck Sherlock, I don’t know how you could do this. Was it just for fun?” That's not fair. Not at all. What is he doing? He can't justify the words. Can't prove them and can't stop them all at once. It feels good to say them. Good in the way being sick feels good after a hangover. Only a smudge better for a moment, but enough to feel like a victory.  
He doesn’t feel himself reel backwards. He only knows he’s lunged when his fist clumsily lands against Sherlock’s cheek. His good cheek. For a moment John thinks that the spot will bruise, but then his anger gets the better of him. It’s only when people are pulling him away that he realizes he’s hit Sherlock more than once.  
The machines beep crazily and the doctors rush in but John feels nothing. He’s empty. Sherlock isn’t in that shell anymore. He sits back.  
“It’s alright,” he says, “let him go, it’s alright.”  
He waves his hand in front of his face. Mrs. Hudson is leaning over the edge of the bed while the doctors move around. She is crying. David turns once to John but returns to his work before he can say a word.  
“John…” Mrs. Hudson starts.  
“No, it’s alright. He isn’t in there. He left,” John says in a daze. He hit Sherlock. How could he do that?  
“John…” Mrs. Hudson tries again.  
The machines are going crazy and John feels himself shaking.  
“Mr. Watson,” David says, “he’s waking up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this and interested thank you so much! Since I have had someone ask me why in the world I would write it like this, I figured I'd leave a small note.
> 
> John is angry and Sherlock is in a coma. He can yell and scream all he wants but he won't get an answer and that's like being stuck in purgatory for him. Even though he knows the truth and believes Sherlock did it for him as well as the others, he's still angry about it. When he hits Sherlock, he truly believes no one is there. He thinks Sherlock is a shell. While I don't actually condone the action, he's been drugged so he wouldn't interrupt their work and he's rather angry with the world, so he takes it out on Sherlock. 
> 
> I hope this helps explain this and like I said before, I'm sorry the start is so rough. Reading through it again, I wonder why my small group of betas (when our schedules work together they all read it, this time only 2 did) let the start pass go, but I can always fix it. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me and as always, I thank my loyal tumblr followers who beg for more of the story and give me a reason to keep going with it :)


	6. Normal Is Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Am I supposed to thank you?” Mycroft asks stiffly.

Later, John will wonder why three men were needed to care for a coma patient. Later, he’ll feel stupid for believing Mycroft only meant to take care of his brother. Later, he’ll care that his knuckles are bleeding from hitting the head board. Later, he’ll know two of the men guard John just as much as they guard Sherlock.  
Now, he watches Sherlock flex his fingers and he feels relief and a crushing sense of regret.  
“I…I hit him. I would never…” he mutters. He can’t believe he lost control. He would never hit someone who was hurt but Sherlock was so bloody annoying and he wasn’t yelling back. John clenches his fists. He was sure Sherlock was gone. Was sure he was only yelling at a shell of a man. He would never hit Sherlock like that if he’d believed Sherlock would wake.   
Mrs. Hudson makes soothing noises. “He always needed someone to knock sense into him, dear.”  
Strangely, it is just what John needs to hear and he laughs. It’s a rough sound because he’s out of practice, but it’s a laugh no less. He realizes the ridiculousness and the improbability of what is happening and he laughs harder.   
Mrs. Hudson has called Mycroft, he knows. He waits, sitting on the floor in the bedroom with his knuckles bleeding. Sherlock continues to twitch and his machines continue to beep. Mycroft comes in followed by Doctor Moore. John looked him up. He is a world renowned neurologist. The knowledge doesn’t make John feel any better.   
Dr. Moore doesn’t speak to John but instead moves straight to Sherlock. He sighs. Turns to face them. Mycroft is standing beside John and waits as well. For once, he isn’t the expert and he needs to wait for an answer as well. For a moment, John feels smug.   
“This won’t be easy. It isn’t quick like you might hope. His brain has…for lack of a better term, turned back on but it’s going to take time for it to all start up again. Congratulations,” he says stiffly. He isn’t the type of man to admit he’s wrong.   
He continues to check things that John doesn’t understand and John turns to Mycroft.   
“Am I supposed to thank you?” Mycroft asks stiffly.  
John lifts his chin. So Mrs. Hudson had shared that bit of information. John looks at his kunckles.   
“Don’t think so,” John says.  
“Good.”  
Neither speaks for a moment as they both try to take in the changes in events. Only four days have passed. John is sure now that Mycroft never thought Sherlock would wake, he simply wanted his brother to be cared for in his end. John knows that Mycroft sees this deduction. He shifts his eyes away.   
Sherlock’s fingers are twitching but he doesn’t respond to his name and his eyes don’t react to light. His pupils are tiny needle points in his vast, green eyes. Dr. Moore studies him for a long time and turns to Mycroft.  
“I suggest you bring him to the hospital,” Mycroft begins to speak and the doctor lifts his hand. “but, I know you won’t. So I’m going to recommend a constant watch and that if it isn’t me, you at least bring another doctor in to check on him daily. This is the hardest stage. He might not be himself when he does wake and that might be frustrating for everyone. You need to keep an eye on him for any change and when he does wake up, we’ll go from there.”  
Mycroft nods. John shakes his head. He still feels a bit fuzzy and his knuckles are beginning to hurt.   
Dr. Moore stands over John and says, “I wouldn’t recommend hitting him again. It might be enough to jog his brain, but you could damage him.”  
John isn’t sure if he’s joking or not. He doesn’t respond.   
Mycroft nods to him and gestures the man out into the kitchen. There’s nothing on the table anymore and they can sit and talk without having to push aside bottles of acid and human organs. John stays on the floor and watches Sherlock’s fingers twitch. He hears the murmur of their voices, probably making a plan on how to care for the youngest Holmes brother. His knuckles throb. 

It’s isn’t black anymore, though the fog is something else altogether. It very nearly hurts.   
“Congratulations.”  
Sherlock’s coat is cold. He shrugs it off. He isn’t sinking any longer. He can move. His fingers twitch. His head hurts. It hurts more than it has in days. He looks around. Someone is talking. John isn’t here. He sighs.  
“Tedious,” he says.  
“Rather, isn’t it? Simply…staying. Why don’t you come with me?” Moriarty comes up behind him.   
Sherlock doesn’t look. Moriarty touches his tongue to Sherlock’s neck.  
“Sexier,” he purrs. Sherlock doesn’t blink.   
The windows are mirrors that distort him. When he was a child his parents had taken him and Mycroft to a circus and he’d played in the fun house instead of watching the acts. He’d gotten lost in his bloated hands and nose and mouth. In there, everyone was odd. He was nothing more than normal.  
“Normal is nothing,” Moriarty whispers.  
Sherlock watches himself in the mirrors. Feels the fog wrap like chains around his arms. His fingers twitch. Moriarty laughs. The glass breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I"m hoping this chapter kind of clears up John's intentions in the last chapter. As always, thanks for sticking with this!


	7. Chapter 7: How To Continue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, not many people can feel affection for a man like that, but John does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about medicine, but I am trying to keep this as realistic as I can with how long it takes. Bear with the lack of medical facts and I hope you enjoy.

John has fallen asleep beside Sherlock again. His bed is cool with soft sheets that invite John in. He wonders why a man who doesn’t sleep much needs such comfortable sheets. The thought makes him smile. He rolls so his arm presses against Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hand twitches and John feels somewhat content. The anger has nearly seeped from his bones and now he waits.  
There is a bruise blooming along Sherlock’s cheek. John put it there but in perspective, it isn’t much next to the hole healing on the side of his head. John laughs at his own stupidity and gets up to begin his day.

Two weeks later-

Sherlock’s eyes are open. He isn’t moving, isn’t speaking, but his eyes are open and his pupils have grown. John can feel the anticipation of everyone in the flat. He almost laughs when David (his name is David, John knows that now) says he can’t wait to meet Sherlock. David won’t like Sherlock. Most people don’t. Sherlock will know that his mother left his father by the scratches on his watch and he’ll be able to tell David isn’t quite comfortable with Mycroft and the money he makes because of a loose thread in his jumper. No, not many people can feel affection for a man like that, but John does. He claps David on the back on his way out the door.  
He and Mrs. Hudson bring the telly into Sherlock’s room. They drag their chairs in and watch crap shows while eating toast. Mrs. Hudson tells Sherlock about her newest boyfriend. John tells Sherlock about his job. They pretend he is listening and laugh at what they believe he would say. It is mundane and nothing special, but Sherlock opens his eyes and sees them, so that’s something.  
John goes to work and then goes to the pub. He talks to the barmaid who has since given up on leaning over the counter and has now begun to laugh with him. His life begins to heal itself. At the end of each day, he showers and slides into bed next to Sherlock. He tells his friend of his day and laughs because Sherlock can’t complain about the boring way John lives his life. He laughs and he waits because someday soon, Sherlock will come back and then there will no longer be silence. 

Sherlock dreams in deep blues now. The mist swirls as if in a dance about his feet. His fingers twitch and his eyes roll but all he sees is blue. There are no more screams and no more mirrors. He stands in the center of London completely alone.  
“Alone protects you.”  
It’s Irene this time. The Woman. She runs red fingertips along his jaw. She has no pulse. She has a head, thanks to him.  
“Alone protects us all. We aren’t like them,” she speaks against his jaw.  
Did he love her? Maybe. He doesn’t know. Her skin feels like razor blades, leaving slits and slivers on his arms.  
She touches his chest.  
“Don’t go back and don’t go forward. This is where you belong,” her voice is velvet but he feels the way it curves. Her lies carry in the air with the scent of licorice.  
He pulls away. Moves slowly down the road. She isn’t following but rather, she is there. No mirrors. No moon and no sun. The world is underwater. His breath bubbles. All he sees is blue. Her eyes grow large in her head and she grins. Her teeth are knives. Sherlock gives her a stern smile. Her mouth would be a weapon, even in his mind.  
“I know what you like,” she says, her teeth cutting his shoulder blade.  
His head hurts but in her hand she holds a name of someone dear and his lips curl. Pushing her away, he walks back the way he came. She doesn’t follow but rather becomes a part of the scenery. Too much damn blue. 

It’s deep in the night when Sherlock mumbles for the first time. 4 weeks since he opened his eyes and John has learned to sleep with his hand over Sherlock’s heart. He still worries it will stop when he isn’t looking. He’s learned to live with Dr. Moore who still looks as if he’s smelled something awful in the flat, but at least he’s helping Sherlock and he’s begun to give John grudging respect though John couldn’t say why.  
Sherlock mumbles as John’s watch says 2:42 and John is startled awake. He says two words again and again and John feels a wave of sadness overwhelm him.  
“Help. John. Help John. Help John,” the words run from Sherlock’s mouth and he thrashes. Soon, they run together to become one word and John stands because he can’t stand doing nothing. He dials Mycroft without thinking.  
“He’s speaking,” he says when Mycroft picks up. Mycroft doesn’t ask what John means and for once John is glad for the insufferable Holmes brothers and their powers of deduction, even over the phone.  
“I’ll phone Dr. Moore, don’t leave his side.”  
Mycroft hangs up, leaving John to listen to Sherlock’s pleas alone.  
It doesn’t take long for Dr. Moore to get to the flat and for once, he doesn’t make a face when he enters the room, instead he turns to Sherlock without prelude and in that moment, John is thankful for the man.  
Sherlock whimpers when Dr. Moore lifts his eyelids and he twitches when his fingers are prodded. Dr. Moore says his name, but Sherlock doesn’t respond.  
“Doctor Watson, could you do something for me?” Dr. Moore asks without turning around.  
Mycroft spins his umbrella as John answers hesitantly. “Yes…”  
“Call him. As loudly as you can. Call his name,” Dr. Moore still hasn’t turned around and John feels like it’s an invasion of privacy, but he agrees.  
He moves close to Sherlock and leans in. He can feel Sherlock breathing and he sighs.  
“Now, please,” Dr. Moore says.  
“SHERLOCK!” he bellows. Dr. Moore gestures for him to do it again. John keeps shouting while everyone watches. It’s somewhat therapeutic. 

Sherlock is bored of his own mind. He’s figured out at last that it is simply a nightmare and now he sits by the water letting the fog tie his legs down then release as he swirls the air in front of him with his fingers. His eyes ache. The sky is nearly normal now, though the clouds hang low enough that they get caught in his hair. He pushes them away like cobwebs and waits. Sure enough, they come.  
They’re walking on nails but instead of blood, they leak honey. Sherlock can smell it sweetly as they sit beside him.  
“Mummy,” he greets.  
His mother had made a surprise appearance when he’d pushed Irene away. Her anguish at his life was palpable and he’d been able to hold her disappointment in his hands. He was getting quite used to his own mind. Hyper aware of everything, he was trapped. Tedious.  
“Oh my dear, why are you still here?” she sounds heartbreakingly sad and Sherlock turns to her.  
“I know what you like,” Irene runs her finger up his thigh. Razor blades. He bleeds blood so thick it’s like jelly and she licks honey from her lips.  
“See you in hell,” Moriarty smiles so his skull splits, his teeth a bright mess. Sherlock doesn’t even blink anymore.  
“I don’t know,” he answers his mother.  
She opens her arms. He remembers her like this. Before the sickness, when she loved her sons and remembered their names. She holds him.  
Irene slithers along his legs and Moriarty lets his blunt teeth graze Sherlock’s shoulder but Sherlock only listens to his mother.  
“Listen…closely,” she whispers in his ear.  
He does. The clouds sink lower, covering his face like cotton, but he listens. Somewhere above him, someone is shouting his name. 

John shouts until he is hoarse. He shouts until Dr. Moore places his hand on his arm and shakes his head.  
He shouts until Sherlock opens his eyes.  
For a moment he seems panicked. For a moment, he doesn’t know John. For a moment, there is no one else in the world but the man in the bed and his fear. Then he opens his mouth.  
“John?” he croaks.  
Later, John will wonder how the collar of his jumper got so wet when he didn’t know he was crying and why he smells of sweat and tears but in that moment, he only feels the hand of the man on the bed squeezing tightly, holding them in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with his story :) I honestly hope you're still enjoying it. I'm enjoying writing it! Thanks to those beta readers who tell me when something is crap before I post it and who applaud when I make sense. And thank you for believing this is going somewhere, since the original plan has sort of gone away. We're flying blind right now, but I know it'll work out!
> 
> Thank you all again.


	8. Chapter 8: If Life is a Miracle....We are Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He works when he doesn’t need to and spends time at the pub. He doesn’t know what to do with the Sherlock he has now. He doesn’t know if even Sherlock knows what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As always, I have no real medical knowledge, so if this doesn't always work, I'm sorry. I am trying to keep it as close to medically reasonable as possible.

It isn’t easy and sometimes, Sherlock longs for his own mind and the dreams he keeps there. He can only say a handful of words and he can’t move anything other than his hands. He grasps pens and stress balls and lets doctors prod at his skin while his voice stutters, trying to make words he knows but can’t seem to say. It feels like sandpaper in his mouth and he resents it. He resents his body as well as his brain. He wishes to run but he can’t even walk.   
His head heals and they tell him about what happened. Just because he can’t say it doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember. When he wakes, he remembers falling. He remembers being shot at. He remembers fear. Most of all, he remembers crying out John’s name when everything went black. He lets them say the same things over and over because he can’t stop them.   
Dr. Moore pokes him with needles and speaks down to him. David smiles and gives him news on the world as if he cares about the Prime Minister. Sherlock yearns to tell him he knows about the other woman and his wife’s infidelity. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out.   
Mrs. Hudson watches telly with him when John is at work. She smells of warm bread and perfume and is strangely relaxing. She speaks of her boyfriend and how she wishes Sherlock could give her the truth. He tries to smile. She works the muscles in his legs as the doctors have shown her. Sometimes, she sits in silence with him but he feels her concern.  
It is an unremarkable Monday when she comes in the door and sees him moving his arms.  
“Oh Sherlock!” she tears up.   
He manages to lift his lips before sliding back down into the bed.   
“If only John were here,” she says. She leans in and kisses him on the forehead. He is surprised by the contact but simply blinks at her.  
“John…” he manages to croak before frowning. She smiles.  
“Yes, John. He’ll be so proud,” she beams.   
“John,” he says once more.   
She pats his head and settles into her chair. Smiling, she turns on the telly and they watch together.

John is busy in the time it takes Sherlock to learn to say some words and to move his hands. At first he has no strength and can only grasp a pen for a few seconds before dropping it. John knows it must be killing the man and he tries to avoid the visits with Dr. Moore and Mycroft in the hopes of sparing his flat mate some embarrassment. He works when he doesn’t need to and spends time at the pub. He doesn’t know what to do with the Sherlock he has now. He doesn’t know if even Sherlock knows what to do.

The first time John and Sherlock are alone for a night comes a month after Sherlock calls for John for the first time and two weeks after Sherlock manages to bend his knees. John has been slipping into the room to sleep only when Sherlock is already in the middle of his REM cycle and he wakes before Sherlock even manages to move his hand. On this night, John eats Chinese sitting on the bed and Sherlock flexes his fingers around a bright red ball. David had fed him oatmeal earlier, ignoring the glowering like a champ.   
“John…hand…” Sherlock grinds out.  
John turns to him. “It’s getting better. It’ll get easier.”  
It’s hard to look in Sherlock’s eyes and he shifts his eyes down to avoid the bright gaze.   
He died of a broken heart.   
Sherlock reaches for John’s hand. “Your hand,” he says.  
He looks insistent and for a moment, John smiles. Sherlock could always talk with his eyes and even with half his hair shaved to fuzzy stubs, he can still look like an earnest child when he wants to.   
John turns his hand over and Sherlock traces long fingers over the creases. It tickles slightly and John laughs. Sherlock tries to smile. Shifts his legs. Frowns.   
“It’s alright,” John says, seeing the frustration, “we knew it wouldn’t be easy.”   
Sherlock clenches his fingers around John’s.  
“No. No…I…didn’t,” Sherlock speaks carefully so his words will be understood. Sometimes he finds his thoughts move too fast and though he picks simple words, they all run together.   
John smooth’s his hand along Sherlock’s. John’s hand is callused and sturdy. Sherlock likes the feel.   
“No, I guess you didn’t. This must be torture.”  
Sherlock blinks twice. It is his way of saying yes without a voice. John rubs his face. Sherlock lifts his arm and lets it flop. He blinks furiously.   
“I know. Soon…soon you’ll be yourself again,” John says. He moves to climb from the bed.   
“No…st…stay,” Sherlock forces the words out and John catches his eyes.   
He sucks in his breath. The first time Sherlock’s eyes had focused on him since the fall, they’d held the same intensity as before. Only when he opened his mouth did he seem to realize only one word was coming out correctly and from there they dimmed but now he watches John with vivid clarity.   
He remembers the first time Sherlock had looked down at him. The first time he’d gotten caught in the life Sherlock wove around himself. His eyes had been a storm green that day, the color of the water rushing against the sand when the rain came down and he’d smiled, pulling John in without knowing it. John didn’t know it then, but Sherlock had become the structure of John’s life. They’d become a formidable bridge that leaned together. One without the other would simply collapse. Through the small battles about food and shopping and cleaning and even through the bigger ones where neither said a word, they balanced against one another.   
Now Sherlock can’t speak. He can’t move. He can’t jump over the table or push John’s hands from the keyboard to type in a search. He can’t even tell John he wants tea. John feels the shame fill his chest and he looks away.   
Sherlock had saved him. He had taken a broken man who couldn’t survive in the day to day world he was in and he gave him a battlefield where he could thrive. John can do nothing for Sherlock now besides sit beside him and hold his hand. He grips Sherlock’s fingers tightly and looks back into those eyes.  
“We’ll do this,” he says.  
Sherlock nods and lets himself sag back into the bed. John leans back as well and together, fingers entwined, they watch the normal lives around them continue. 

Sherlock dreams of running. Of jumping. He dreams of dancing which is ridiculous since he doesn’t enjoy dancing, but in his dreams, he dances. There is no Moriarty. No Irene. No Mummy. There is an open sky and the scent of books. There is freedom and sometimes, if he’s lucky, there is John.   
In his dreams, Sherlock knows he loves John. Knows he always has. Knows he probably always will. In his dreams he doesn’t struggle and he can yell to the sky but the best dreams are the ones where his hand is linked to John’s and they run together. They run across fields near Baskerville and down the loud streets of London. John never slows and Sherlock is never pulling. They are side by side. A team.   
Sherlock wouldn’t say he’s a romantic. He wouldn’t say he was sentimental. He wouldn’t say he even enjoyed being able to feel, but in his dreams John puts a hand on his chest and smiles with relief and joy and Sherlock can’t help but feel the surge affection and warmth that radiates from that hand. Gone are the dreams of losing. The dreams of sinking and razors. In his dreams, Sherlock dreams of hope. Then he opens his eyes and he realizes he doesn’t need nightmares. He’s living one.


	9. Chapter 9: Finding His Way Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock watches John before he blurts, “I dream about you.”

John wakes to the sound of the stress ball slamming into the window. He looks over. Sherlock is awake, his eyes raging and his hands trembling. He pulls on John’s wrist, shaking his legs. He is angry and he is going mad. He can’t live like this much longer. John closes his eyes for a moment before pushing Sherlock’s hair from his face and making soothing noises. Sherlock barks half words at him and John presses his forehead to Sherlock’s.  
“Okay,” he says, “okay. I’ll see what I can do. Okay.”  
Sherlock trembles but he calms down. His pupils are pin points and his lips chapped. John lets himself lean on Sherlock. He hasn’t held Sherlock. He hasn’t done anything but reassure himself his friend is still breathing since he’s been back to Baker Street. He hasn’t let Sherlock know he’s here for the long run. He rests against Sherlock and feels the huffing breaths on his cheeks. He closes his eyes.   
In the night he still places his hand on Sherlock’s chest to find the reassuring beat of his heart. It hadn’t occurred to him to think about Sherlock’s mind.   
“You’re in there. We’ll figure this out. God, Sherlock, I wish…” his voice breaks and he clears his throat.   
“I wish this could be easy. I wish you could have walked back to me. I wish I didn’t see you bloody. I wish I could have hit you and you could have reeled back at me. I wish you could have explained. I…I’ll bring you back,” he says softly.   
He starts when a cool palm catches his cheek. Looking up, he sees Sherlock’s eyes so close to his own. Their breath mixes and the scent of toothpaste mingles between them (Mrs. Hudson helps to brush Sherlock’s teeth at night) and John can see the misery in his friend’s face. Misery and trust.   
“Okay,” Sherlock says quietly.  
“Okay,” John replies.   
Sherlock closes his eyes and squeezes John’s hand before letting his head tip back. John misses the pressure of Sherlock’s forehead, but he leans back into his space on the bed and lets his eyes shut. As the clock glows at 4:12, Sherlock murmurs,  
“Okay.” And John drifts off to sleep. He dreams of a crying little boy with broken teeth and the moon cutting gashes into his hands. 

The next morning, John calls Mycroft while sitting next to Sherlock.   
“John,” Mycroft says. It’s short. He’s busy. John doesn’t care.  
“We need to do something,” John says curtly. Sherlock nods.  
“It’s driving him mad being in this bed without being able to move or speak. We have to do something.”  
John stands and moves to the window. Sherlock watches John’s movements. He flexes his toes. He knows he should be pleased but he just can’t seem to be. He frowns. Words have begun to get easier but moving is still tough.   
“Well it can’t just stay like this,” John is saying.   
“You heard Dr. Moore, what would you recommend to help my brother?” Mycroft sounds slightly amused.  
John sighs in frustration. “I…I don’t know but we have to do something. Sherlock might not be dead, but…” John lowers his voice, “but if we don’t do something he will be. He’s driving himself mad. You know how he was. He needs that back.”  
Mycroft sounds tired when he answers. “How do you know my brother is even still in there?”  
Sherlock bangs his hand on the headboard. John turns. Sherlock grins and holds out his arm, wiggling his fingers. John feels a rush of pride in Sherlock’s progress as he hands over the phone.  
“You’re…git,” Sherlock says into the phone.   
John can hear Mycroft huff as he takes the phone back. He swears Sherlock laughs.  
“Right. Well. I will come by tonight, if you aren’t working.”  
“I’ll call in,” John says.  
“Dr. Moore will be with me,” Mycroft says this dangerously. John laughs without humor.  
“No worries. I’ll be on my best behavior. It’s your brother you should worry about. He’s getting mouthy again,” John flashes a smile at Sherlock and something clicks. Sherlock blinks.   
Sherlock waits until John is off the phone.  
“John?” he says quietly.   
“Mycroft will be coming by tonight. We’ll figure something out,” John is saying.  
“John?” Sherlock tries again.   
“He’s bringing that git of a doctor, but if it means we figure something out, I’ll manage it.”  
“John!” Sherlock nearly shouts. He clears his throat when John turns to him in surprise.   
“I think…I think I’ve got my words back,” Sherlock says in a low voice. It feels scratchy and raw, but it’s his voice and he is relieved.   
John feels his face go slack and then he smiles.  
“Okay, tell me.” John holds out his arms, inviting the flow of deductions.   
Sherlock can feel John’s happiness and despair all at once. Mrs. Hudson had told him that John had punched him (no wonder his head had hurt) and that was when he’d opened his eyes. John had been waiting. Sherlock knows that. He knew that when he fell. When he let Molly usher him into a new life where he could jump into danger without John watching his back. He knows John wants to hit him again. Wants him to fight back. To scream and yell and feel the bones beneath his fists. Maybe they will soon, but for now, John will settle for bringing Sherlock back. He nods.  
“You’ve been tired. Sleeping in here with me. In the night you fear I’m not breathing so you touch my chest. You sleep like that. You’ve been to the pub. A woman there is interested but you’re not. She’s probably attractive since you’re flushed when you return. You’re stressed about work but you spend your time there anyway. I make you nervous. You worry. Who is that David bloke who keeps telling me about the government?”   
John laughs. “He’s your live in nurse. He has been doing your therapy with you nearly all day. If you can’t remember that, I’ll really worry.”   
“Yes, but why does he think I care?” Sherlock flexes his fingers. His skin feels tight, but the relief of having his voice back makes the pain hurt less.   
“Probably because he is employed by Mycroft,” John sits beside Sherlock.  
Sherlock grimaces and John smiles. He begins to work Sherlock’s arm. “Press against my hand as hard as you can,” he says softly.   
Sherlock pushes. John nods and pulls up Sherlock’s other hand. “Now this one,” he says.  
Sherlock watches John before he blurts, “I dream about you.”  
John looks surprised but he moves to the end of the bed, prodding Sherlock’s toes and stretching his legs.   
“I dream of us on cases and…just running. In my dreams I can move again,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t know why he’s talking so much. Maybe it’s because he can finally hear his own voice. Because he can feel it in his throat and when John presses his hands softly, it’s hard to think of why he wouldn’t say it.   
“I know you worry about me. Mrs. Hudson told me you…knocked me back into my head,” Sherlock clears his throat.  
John flushes. “I’m sorry about that. I lost control of myself.”  
Sherlock catches John’s hand and pulls. John looks up at Sherlock. “Thank you,” he struggles to say. “Don’t be sorry. Just…thank you. You woke me up. Yesterday…you knew what I needed. I was trapped and you helped. Thank you, John. I don’t know if there’s any other way to say it.”   
John leans in and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s forehead before he loses his nerve. Sherlock jerks slightly but doesn’t pull away all the way.   
“I am sorry I hit you. It’s…unforgivable. We will get through this, you know.”  
“When I’m able to walk again, you can hit me again. It can’t have helped to hit someone who was in a coma,” Sherlock says with a small smile.  
John remembers that smile. The slow, small grin that shows Sherlock’s playful nature. It was the same smile he gave when John came home, upset over his card being denied or when a girlfriend left him. It was the smile that meant something good was coming. Sometimes it would simply be a cup of tea, but other times it was running through the streets of London, his breath ripped from his lungs in the glorious chase. He can’t help but smile back.  
“Seems fair, you nutter,” he replies with affection.   
Sherlock talks through the day and John finds he doesn’t mind. Even when the words turn to angry rants about the dirt on the window and even when he spits that David’s father must not care, nearly reducing the man to tears, John doesn’t mind at all. He listens and answers when it’s necessary, but mostly he just likes the deep rumble of a voice that comes from his friend’s mouth. He helps Sherlock with his therapy and they find that Sherlock can’t seem to find the words for tea and coffee, but that doesn’t deter Sherlock for pushing nearly past his ability.   
When night falls and John has called out of work (“that’s fine, we understand”) Mycroft appears with Dr. Moore. John helps Sherlock into the kitchen by nearly carrying the gangly man to a chair. He slouches back, but seems determined to be there, so John lets him stay.   
“Right. I didn’t know you’d be a part of this,” Mycroft manages to inflict as much venom as he can into the words. Sherlock lets his face go slack.  
“Of course you didn’t.”  
Dr. Moore seems surprised by the words but Mycroft doesn’t blink. John isn’t sure he’s calm or just hiding his surprise.   
“This is my care, I wish to help decide it,” Sherlock snaps. John sighs. “Sherlock…” he trails off.  
Sherlock flicks his eyes to John and it is impossible to miss the affection as Sherlock visibly settles.   
John leans forward. “I was thinking we get a case.”  
“No,” Mycroft says.   
John holds up his hand. “You owe us. Nothing terrible. Call Lestrade. He must have something rather easy that we can assist in. I’m not eager to push the body, but as we all know,” his eyes fall to Sherlock, “Sherlock is not the type of person to let his body heal. At least with a case, he can get something done. We’ll still do all the therapy. I’ll personally work with him. Just give us something to do. There’s only so much crap telly we can stand.”   
“What makes you think he can handle that?” Dr. Moore says with a measured tone.   
“I am right here,” Sherlock says icily.   
John pats his arm. Sherlock pushes against it and John lets his mouth curl up for a moment before going back to the subject at hand.   
“I will be right there,” John says.  
Dr. Moore opens his mouth and stiffens but Mycroft holds up his hand. John wonders why the Holmes brother’s always need to wear gloves.   
“If you are about to worry about Doctor Watson’s devotion to my brother, you needn’t. I will vouch for his ability in this instance.”  
John flushes for a moment before the conversation rolls on.   
Dr. Moore gives a tight lipped smile and Sherlock sniggers. “Bloody Queen,” he says under his breath.  
John laughs for a moment and Mycroft pulls himself up to his full height. “I see you two have regressed back to your former selves. How…quaint.”   
Dr. Moore clears his throat. “I will not be able to sign off on this,” he says.  
Sherlock sighs angrily. Mycroft smiles. This is not usually a good thing. John stills. Sherlock shakes his leg because he can. His heels rest under Mycroft’s seat. Mycroft grits his teeth before speaking.  
“I’m afraid I must protest that, Dr. Moore. I agree that my brother needs stimulation. With the stipulation that Doctor Watson stays with my brother at all times and calls in once a day as well as lets David do his own daily checkups, I feel it is in all of our best interests to allow this. It seems…reasonable.”   
“Unless you want to hear about your brother and your wife,” Sherlock snarls at the doctor.   
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says dangerously.   
John sighs. “Boys, please.”   
It takes Dr. Moore a moment, but he nods. He stands graciously and for a moment the nasty thought passes through John’s mind that the man walks like there’s a stick up his ass. Sherlock is watching John and he grins as he reads the thought in his friend’s face. John grins back. Dr. Moore tips his head. He is slightly more pale than he had been upon walking in the door and John tries to swallow his laugh.   
“Thank you for the tea. I will send the paper work in the morning. Good day Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson. It has been…enlightening.”   
They all wait until they hear the front door close. Mycroft turns to John. “May I speak with you?” he asks.  
John knows it isn’t a request. He stands, letting his hand touch the back of Sherlock’s neck before he goes. He knows the touch isn’t missed by either brother but he doesn’t care. Sherlock nods as John passes.

“You will stick to our agreement,” Mycroft says as soon as they walk into Sherlock’s room. It has almost become John’s room in the time they’ve been back. His clothes are folded on the chair and the room smells like his soap. He sits on the bed. Mycroft perches on Mrs. Hudson’s chair.   
“I didn’t agree to anything,” John says.   
“But you will,” Mycroft replies.   
John is silent. He waits.  
“You are correct that my brother needs something to keep him busy. A case would be good for him. No…leg work, just something easy. You can call Lestrade and set it up. I am far too busy. But you will tell me about his progress. And you will let David look him over.”  
John rolls his eyes. “Of course David can look him over, but I won’t keep secrets from Sherlock.”  
There are daggers in the words and Mycroft smiles once more. “I am not asking you to. I am simply asking you to let me know how he’s doing. You can do that on speaker phone if you like.”   
John thinks about it for a moment. “Fine. Right.”  
“We will stick to this,” Mycroft says in a voice that is supposed to instill fear.  
John sits back. “Of course. I just hope you don’t share this information with another enemy,” John says coldly.  
He sees the slight flinch. It might be because he knows Sherlock or it might just be that Mycroft wasn’t expecting it, but John revels in the movement. His anger hasn’t faded; it’s only been pushed to the back of his mind until everything is settled. He needs Sherlock to be better before he can do anything about it. Taking it out on Mycroft seems like the best way to deal with it for now.   
“I do not make the same mistakes twice,” Mycroft snaps.   
John nods. He is done with the conversation and Mycroft knows it. Mycroft rises and leaves. He doesn’t say goodbye to Sherlock, instead walking right by his brother stiffly. John hears Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs as the door closes and he waits for a moment before rising to retrieve Sherlock. Tomorrow, they will begin again and hopefully Sherlock will get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more for reading :) I hope you're all enjoying the ride. I know I am. I really enjoy the dream sequences so I'm hoping to put in more soon. 
> 
> I'm hoping to go through the whole piece tomorrow and fix up the things my beta readers and I missed, as well as add a new chapter.


	10. Chapter 10: Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John understands him even when he isn’t sure he understands himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Once again I'm saying I know nothing about medical science and comas, so other than what Google tells me, I'm not sure how a coma would be handled. I hope this is believable.

He’s standing in mud with clouds smothering his face when Irene returns. She’s wearing a sheet and her skin is too pale.   
“Did you believe I cared for you?” she asks. Her voice leaves grey streaks in the air.   
Sherlock can feel the bruising on his face. The hole in his head. The ache in his chest. She puts her fingers in the hole where his heart would be. He really doesn’t have one. He shouldn’t be surprised. She smiles. Knives.   
“Did you care for me?” he shoots back.  
She runs her fingers through his hair. Smiles. Purrs. “I know what you like.”  
She steps back. John stands in front of him. Beside Irene. He looks only at Sherlock. Hi eyes are ticking clocks. He’s holding a beating heart. Sherlock swallows hard. John holds out his hands. Blood drips to the ground. Irene laughs.   
“Let’s have dinner,” she says. John places his hand over the hole in Sherlock’s chest.  
“Breathe,” he says, placing the heart back in its spot. “Breathe, Sherlock, come on.”

Sherlock jerks awake. John is pressing on his chest and his face is close to Sherlock’s.   
“Breathe, it’s okay. You’re alright. Come on,” he’s saying. Sherlock blinks owlishly and John sits back. Sherlock can’t catch his breath. John presses his chest harder.  
“You’re having a panic attack. Concentrate on my hand. Count down from 100. Just let yourself relax.”  
Sherlock can’t speak so he nods. He counts in his head and concentrates on the pressure and warmth of John’s palm. He struggles to sit up. He wants to curl into a ball and scream. He can feel the air laboring in his lungs. He’s terrified and he can’t stop it. John doesn’t touch him more than a hand pressing on his chest and Sherlock slowly begins to breathe normally again.  
“Are you alright?” John’s voice is rough with sleep but he looks at Sherlock with clear eyes.   
Sherlock nods.  
“What happened?” he asks softly.  
“Dream,” Sherlock pulls his trembling arm up and runs his fingers through his curls. He doesn’t touch the tender side of his head where his hair is growing back.   
John nods. Sherlock knows John used to have nightmares about the war. For a moment he feels guilty for not helping John as John is helping him but as John pulls his hand back into his lap and leans in to check Sherlock’s eyes, Sherlock knows John will never begrudge him for that. John understands him even when he isn’t sure he understands himself.   
“Blink for me,” John turns Sherlock’s head to the left and then to the right. Sherlock blinks quickly.  
“Slowly,” John smiles.  
Sherlock blinks slowly.   
“You should be nicer to David. He’s here to take care of you,” John says.  
Sherlock can tell it’s very late or rather, very early. John shows no signs of going back to sleep. He tips Sherlock’s head back to look in his eyes and check the bruise on his cheek with steady hands.   
“I don’t need to be taken care of,” Sherlock says darkly.  
“You’re letting me take care of you,” John observes.   
Sherlock shrugs defensively. John smiles. He lets go of Sherlock’s face and leans back. They sit in silence for a minute.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock says harshly.   
John pats Sherlock’s hand without thought. “You should be nicer to David,” he says again.  
Sherlock knows John is saying it’s okay. He nods.   
“I’ve never had that happen to me before,” he says finally. John opens his eyes and sits up fully next to Sherlock. He helps Sherlock pull himself up so they are side by side before he answers.  
“Well you’ve never been shot before either,” John says reasonably.  
Sherlock shrugs, his eyes shifting down. John takes that in for a moment before speaking again.   
“Well, you’ve never been shot in the head,” John amends.  
“True,” Sherlock says.   
“They happen for a reason. It’s alright. Next time, if there is a next time, just do what I told you. It will help you calm down.”   
Sherlock has never felt hatred for his body before. When he was a child he’d hated his mind. Hated his words. Hated himself for the way he couldn’t seem to stop talking and how he just couldn’t know when he’d said too much. He’d never hated his body but now he feels broken. He lets out a strangled growl. John will never say he’s broken, never say there’s something wrong with him but Sherlock feels there must be. Sherlock snarls once more.   
John looks surprised. “It will be alright. We’ll call Lestrade in the morning. Mycroft will have told him by then. By now, Jesus, is it really 5 already? We’ll get a case. You’ll get better. It’ll all be fine.”  
“I need to be able to move, John. To run…to…to do anything other than lie in this bed!” Sherlock slams his fists into the mattress.  
“Shh, don’t wake Mrs. Hudson. Or the others for that matter,” John pushes Sherlock’s fists down so he’s pinning Sherlock to the bed. Sherlock snarls. John is leaning over him and Sherlock can see the exhaustion and the determination in John’s face. He blinks in surprise.   
“You don’t want David to come prod at you, do you? He’ll give you something and you won’t be able to take a case. He’ll try to talk to you,” John insists.  
Sherlock lets his body relax as he thinks. “You’re right.”   
Screwing up his face he shakes his hands beneath John’s. “Dammit!”   
John releases his hands and rolls his legs to get out of bed.  
“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks quickly.  
John smirks. “Tea. It’s early and I’m awake. Want a cuppa?”   
Sherlock shrugs. John pads to the kitchen with smile plastered on his face.   
Sherlock closes his eyes and feels his chest relax. He doesn’t know how long he waits for John. He doesn’t feel John pulling the comforter back up his shoulders or the bed dip as John crawls back in. All he knows is the warmth of a broad palm on his chest as he sinks into sleep.

It had terrified John to see Sherlock thrashing. To see his head whipping around and his eyes fluttering behind thin eyelids. He’d pressed down on Sherlock’s chest the way he used to do for himself when he’d wake in a panic. Sherlock hadn’t heard him at first. Hadn’t responded to the pressure or John’s voice in his ear. John had continued to push lightly on Sherlock’s chest and tried to wake him without scaring the man.  
Panic attacks weren’t new to John. When he’d returned home with his hands shaking and his leg painful he’d wake in the night with something squeezing his lungs. He’d learned how to calm himself by trial and error. It was something he’d expected after a while. Only after he met Sherlock had they eased.   
When it came to Sherlock, it was nearly heart breaking. For over a month Sherlock had been trapped in a bed. He’d been immobile, forced to eat and drink even when he didn’t want to. He’d lost his words and his ability to flit around the flat when he needed to think. He’d been going mad. To see Sherlock defenseless, helpless and wheezing with lack of air had scared John down to his bones. His only thought had been to help the man who suddenly seemed small. He’d done what he could and now the tension in his shoulders eased somewhat.   
He goes to the kitchen and makes tea, letting his mind run over the facts.  
Sherlock was shot in the head. He’d also taken down an international web of criminals in 4 weeks. He’d gotten Molly Hooper to help. That is what surprised John the most. Sherlock ignored Molly unless it was convenient; he didn’t see Sherlock ever realizing she was worth anything but a trip to Bart’s for body parts. From there, he’d given Molly information to give Mycroft. Mycroft had made sure the crime ring was destroyed. It was now on the news constantly. Jim Moriarty, really the consultant criminal. Sherlock Holmes, a hero of the modern age. Sherlock went into a coma because of the bullet. He’s lucky to be alive. Even more lucky to be awake. It’s nearly unheard of that he would be talking at all. Now, he wants to move. He wants to run. Sherlock, the man who wants the impossible and who can get it. Brilliant Sherlock Holmes trapped in a bed.   
John pours the tea. Sherlock wants more than he might ever get. John is proud of any progress but Sherlock is frustrated. His dreams either leave him depressed to open his eyes or terrified in his sleep. He’ll never tell John he’s scared, but John can see it. He can see the misery. Sherlock doesn’t want anything less than everything. They’ve all been warned that Sherlock might never walk with assistance. He might never be able to hold his own weight for long periods of time. He might never be able to run again. John rubs his face.   
Sherlock is obedient when John helps him with his physical therapy but he’s frustrated and snaps at David anytime the man even says hello. John knows more about David now than he cares to know (he has a sister, a cat and a love of fine china. He also hasn’t had a good shag in months. John didn’t care to ask how Sherlock figured that one.) and for the most part has taken over care of Sherlock simply because the others are scared of him.  
John smirks as he places the tea on trays. “Sherlock Holmes, the most annoying man in London even when bedridden,” he says to himself.   
The sun is a blot on the horizon when he gets back to the bedroom. Sherlock is dozing. John smiles before he notices the motion and lets it drop away. His affection for Sherlock has grown in the time taking care of him. The usual exasperation over Sherlock’s personality isn’t gone, but rather replaced with a fierce need to take care of the man. Before, taking care of Sherlock meant shouting about the shopping and force feeding him toast off of John’s own plate when he forgot to eat. Now, taking care of Sherlock meant getting him into the bath, helping him to eat, doing physical therapy and waking him when he whimpered in his sleep. It’s hard not to care for the man. John shakes his head and corrects himself. It’s actually quite easy to dislike Sherlock, but most people don’t see what John does.  
John drinks his tea and puts the tray on the dresser. He eases Sherlock back into bed and slides in beside him. The sun is hardly up. There’s still time to rest. 

“I don’t understand how they can be so different together,” David says.   
It’s 8 AM and the sun is up. Mrs. Hudson is cleaning the flat. David had checked on Sherlock and John only minutes before and finding them still asleep, had decided on a cup of coffee in the kitchen while he waited. Mrs. Hudson is busy dusting the bookshelves. She’s given up on not being the house keeper. She’s now making enough money to clean the flat and still feel guilty that it isn’t enough.   
“Who, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asks.  
“Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes. Every day I do the normal work with him and he nearly spits at me,” David rubs the back of his neck, “but when John walks into the room, it’s different. He’ll work for him, push nearly past his ability for him and won’t say a word.”  
Mrs. Hudson smiles. “They’ve always been that way. Sherlock is impossible but somehow they work together. Since the first day they met.”  
David frowns. “It makes it hard for me to do my job.”  
“Is Sherlock doing any better?” Mrs. Hudson asks.   
John shuffles from the room, yawning. “Oh yes, quite,” he says with a stretch. He nods to David as he walks past.   
“Good morning Mrs. Hudson. David,” he greets.   
“He uses you, you know,” David snaps. He’s irritated. He’d heard of the great Sherlock Holmes. He’d even researched the man. He’d given his time for this job. He was being paid an obscene amount of money to live in a flat where his life was paid for to take care of a single man, but he’d hoped to meet the great detective. His hopes had been to learn from him. He’d taken the job to meet Sherlock and to study with him. So far all he’s learned is that Sherlock Holmes can be an insufferable arse. He can’t help but feel somewhat jealous of the detective’s longtime friend.   
John looks up. It wasn’t the right thing to say. Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands and watches.   
“Don’t speak about things you don’t understand,” John says dangerously.  
David had heard of Doctor John Watson through the grapevine. He’d worked for Mycroft long enough to know of the attachment Sherlock had to the man but it seemed no one understood why. It was very nearly complained about on a daily basis. Quiet, calm and kind John following along behind the man who believes he’s a god. He’d heard complaints about both men but it seemed people were more inclined to like John than they were to like Sherlock. David had found John somewhat dull until lately if he was being honest to himself. He’d seen the doctor helping Sherlock, speaking to him, smiling with affection when Sherlock moved his toes or scratched his head. David was fairly certain John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes and that Sherlock was using that connection to get what he wanted.   
David shakes his head. God save foolish romantics. “Sorry,” he mutters. He doesn’t wish to get on anyone’s bad side. Mycroft will remove him from the flat and the job if that’s the case.   
John nods. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m afraid we’re out of tea, could you run to the shop?”  
She flicks her gaze between the two men before nodding. “Don’t let Sherlock break anything while I’m gone. If I have to tell his brother that window has shattered again, he’ll replace it with bullet proof glass. Then where will Sherlock be?”   
She bustles away and John sags a bit into himself without her eyes on him. He turns to David.   
“Look, you don’t have to like Sherlock. Most people don’t and you’ve been quite…resilient to not try to strangle him in his sleep, but don’t ever assume he’s taking advantage of me. I have made my decisions on my own for years and I haven’t given up that ability since I’ve met Sherlock. If I worked for Mycroft I’d want to shoot myself, so to each his own?” John says dangerously.   
David isn’t dumb enough to ignore the threat in the other man’s voice. He nods. John relaxes.   
“Right. If you want to begin therapy, I have a call to make.”  
David sets his shoulders and moves down the hall with determination. John smirks when he hears Sherlock’s heartfelt groan of disappointment.   
John dials Lestrade.   
“Inspector Lestrade,” Lestrade answers, sounding distracted.  
“Hi Greg, it’s John Watson. I have a question for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a panic attack in the start of this chapter. The way John deals with it is the way I deal with my own anxiety (I have an anxiety disorder) when it becomes too much. I know not everyone handles it the same way, but this is the way it works for me.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always!


	11. Chapter 11: Welcome Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock lets his mouth curl upward before asking, “You know you’re bleeding too?”

Not too long after the call, Lestrade bounds up the steps to 221B. Sherlock has been moved to the couch thanks to John and David, though he doesn’t thank either one and looks at them both with mulish defiance. John, used to such reactions, goes back to tidying the flat while David looks at Sherlock with annoyance.   
Lestrade is relieved to see Sherlock but he won’t say it.Instead he shakes John’s hand, greets David (“good luck with this one, he must be a handful.”) and sits in Sherlock’s chair to discuss their options.   
“Bad joke you played, Sherlock,” he says with a wane smile.  
“It was nothing close to a joke,” Sherlock says stiffly. He’s missed the social cue once again.  
“He’s kidding,” John dismisses the comment and turns back to the subject at hand. David mills around the room and John thinks fleetingly of the other two men sharing their flat who seem to only make an appearance when food is involved. He frowns at David who doesn’t take the hint.   
“What did Mycroft tell you?” John asks.  
Lestrade pushes his coat off his shoulders and settles into the chair, ignoring the fury coming from Sherlock to answer John. “The truth as simply as he could put it. He was in quite a rush from what I understood. Sherlock is alive, he can’t move yet-“ John waves off Sherlock’s protests so Lestrade can continue, “but that he can help with some cases so he doesn’t steal your gun and blow his brains out for real.”   
Sherlock flops his arms and makes noises in his throat but John shushes him once more. David marvels at the efficiency the doctor has in dealing with a petulant Sherlock. Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh and flips onto his side.  
John beams. “You moved on your own,” he says warmly to Sherlock.   
“It’s hardly rocket science,” Sherlock drawls. John doesn’t miss the hint of pride in Sherlock’s voice though and he turns to Lestrade satisfied.   
“Do you have any cases where there won’t be any need to run someone down?” he asks.  
“I always do. You never want them. You want the odd ones. The violent ones. Sometimes frankly, I can’t believe either of you is still alive. It’s almost improbable.”  
“Not impossible,” Sherlock snaps.  
“Sherlock, play nice,” John sounds exasperated and David laughs. John Watson is like a parent to a spoiled child. Sherlock throws a pen at David with vicious intent. John rubs his hands through his hair and Lestrade smirks.  
“I have four cases open you could help close by the afternoon, probably. If you want something tougher, you’re going to need to at least walk. I’d like to have you back at the crime scenes if at all possible. I’ve been excused since it’s been explained that you were indeed innocent and right.”  
Sherlock rolls back to face Lestrade. “Will I be working with Anderson?”  
Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Yes, Anderson will be there. As well as Inspector Donovan. Will that be too much of a problem?”  
John interrupts Sherlock before he makes another snide comment. “We can start small. Sherlock is doing well but we don’t want to push it.”  
“He can only walk out the door before he needs help,” David says as if he’s being helpful.   
John closes his eyes as Sherlock flips himself onto his side and manages to sit up. It clearly takes an effort but no one says anything. Sherlock glares at David.   
“How is your mother? Still drinking?” he snaps.  
“That’s not important,” John looks at the ceiling as he speaks. He hopes to avoid a scene.   
David glowers but doesn’t answer.   
The tension in the room is palpable and the four men all seem to wait for something to break the silence. Lestrade bounces his hands on the arms of the chair.  
“Well, like I said, if you can make it to Scotland Yard, I can give you some files. Won’t be anything too exciting, I’m afraid but it’s something.”  
“Right. When?” John looks over at Sherlock.   
“You’re hoping to figure out how to get me there in however long he gives us before he wants us there,” Sherlock has his hands over his eyes, but he can still feel John’s eyes on him. “You want to make sure I’m not embarrassed.” He says the word like it’s dirty, nearly spitting it at the ceiling.   
John sighs and his usual annoyance at Sherlock boils up before he can stop it. “Maybe I’ll just leave you here,” he snaps.  
Sherlock blinks before laughing. “Bravo, John, you’ve come back.”   
John feels their familiarity and he can’t help but grin. It was always like this. They’d snap then they’d laugh. He remembers Sherlock stealing an ashtray for him after sitting naked in Buckingham Palace. Remembers breathless laughter after chasing criminals and companionable dinners where John shoveled food onto Sherlock’s plate and watched him until he ate. He’s been careful around Sherlock, he realizes. All it took was Lestrade to make him see the way he’s been tip toeing around the detective.   
“And you’re still the same tosser you’ve always been,” John shoots back for the sheer enjoyment of it.   
He’s rewarded with a smirk that reassures him.   
“Boys,” Lestrade chides, “I have a job I have to get back to if you don’t mind. Anytime today or tomorrow. Just stop by. You can even play with the cold cases if you’re good.”  
Sherlock struggles to not look impressed. John notices. David and Lestrade don’t. Lestrade stands and nods. “Right. Well. I’m off. Just give me a ring when you’re heading over. I’ll…get everyone ready.”  
He grimaces on his way out the door and then he’s gone. John can feel the tension between David and Sherlock.   
“Should we…start therapy while we plan this?” he asks.   
“I want you to do it today,” Sherlock says. He’s moved his hands away from his eyes and now turns his gaze to John with sharp intent.   
“I’m supposed to do your check up,” David protests.  
“You can watch but John will do the therapy,” Sherlock narrows his eyes.   
John knows when they’re at a stalemate. Unfortunately, David doesn’t.   
“Your brother hired me,” David says.  
John hangs his head. In the world of things that might have changed Sherlock’s mind, that was the worst thing David could have said. Sherlock pushes himself into a seated position, his feet flat on the floor. For a moment he studies David.  
“What can you deduce about me, Mr. Royce?” he says steadily.   
“You’re…separated from your family?” David says it almost like a question. It isn’t like he hasn’t noticed. Mycroft is clearly rich and while Sherlock shows all the signs of good breeding, he doesn’t live a high class life. David would be a fool not to notice.   
John puts his head in his hands and waits.  
“Exactly. Though that was a very lacking analysis. I’m alarmed, frankly, about the kind of people they’re allowing to be doctors lately.”  
“Sherlock,” John chides.   
“No, no John, really. Were they all this thick when you were in school?”   
Sherlock has become his old self without a hint of remorse and a little more ferociousness thanks to his invalid status. John shakes his head. “Sherlock, don’t,” he says but his heart isn’t in it. He missed this Sherlock though he would never admit it.   
Sherlock leans forward and catches John’s eye, “Everyone is stupid John, but honestly.”  
David lunges before either of them sees him. Sherlock has poked him one too many times and he snaps. When his hands catch Sherlock’s throat John jumps into the brawl. Mrs. Hudson who had been hiding in her flat comes running because of the noise. She comes in the door only to find the three men on the floor wrestling. John with his arms around David, David with his hands around Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock trying to push David away while chuckling.   
“Oh…boys!” Mrs. Hudson flutters about the brawl and manages to get a swift kick in, knocking David to the side.  
“Shame on you Mr. Royce!” she says sharply. “Sherlock can hardly move!”   
Sherlock is splayed on his back on the floor and his body is shaking. John rolls off David and touches a split lip as he scoots his body to Sherlock.  
Touching Sherlock’s shoulder he asks, “Are you alright?”  
Sherlock pulls his arm from his face and grins at John. It’s bright and happy and pure Sherlock even with his cheek bleeding and a new bruise blooming on the spot where John had punched him all that time ago. David must have gotten him there when he lunged. John smiles back and pushes Sherlock’s shoulder.  
“You wanker,” he laughs.   
Sherlock’s smiles have always been blinding. The real ones, not the ones he put on for the world. The kind where he forgets to hide and lets his joy shine through. The smiles he only really shows to John. John laughs and blows out a sigh.  
David has pulled himself up and is sitting with his arms around his knees. He’s clearly angry and getting more upset by the laughter but Sherlock and John can’t seem to stop. John falls onto his back beside Sherlock and feels blood drip into his mouth. Finally, he sighs with the ghost of a smile on his face.  
“You’re a right git, you know that?” he says.  
“Oh, but it’s so much fun,” Sherlock replies.   
John chuckles again before sitting up. He touches his lip once more and looks over at Sherlock.  
“Will you at least let me fix up your face?” he asks.  
Sherlock pushes himself up and tests pulling his knees up. They slide back down and he frowns. John reaches over with gentle hands and helps Sherlock to fold his legs so he’s sitting comfortably. Sherlock still frowns but his face eases. John looks up. There is a question in his face. Oh. Sherlock shrugs.  
“Let me get my kit,” John stands and Sherlock envies how easy it is for John to move about. David spits blood on the floor. John has a strong punch when there’s anger behind it. Sherlock grins at the live in doctor who is playing nurse. If it’s possible, David’s face gets darker. Mrs. Hudson is flying about, scolding David for spitting on the floor and sending a passing comment to Sherlock about childish behavior before finding a rag and mopping up the saliva tinged red.   
John comes back with his first aid kit. He’s mumbling something about finding it under a chair covered in socks as he folds himself down in front of Sherlock. David watches as John leans in, touches Sherlock’s lip with his pointer finger. Watches Sherlock blink and smile. Watches John frown without real malice. David knows now without a doubt in his mind that he will never be able to penetrate the wall they’d built around each other and if he feels a jealous, he tells himself it’s anger and dismisses it. Focusing on the throbbing in his cheek, he stands and trudges back to his room upstairs where his roommates will chuckle at him and make him feel more human with jokes about Sherlock and the insanity of his life.   
John sees David leave and mutters, “good,” under his breath while he checks how deep the cut on Sherlock’s lip is and if anything in his face is broken.   
“Really John, I don’t need protecting,” Sherlock scoffs.  
“Really? Because I recall at least 5 instances where I’ve saved your life and a handful more where I got you out of the way in time to not end up bloody and bruised.”  
Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal, scrunching up his face.  
‘Don’t do that, you’re bleeding more,” John scolds.  
“Don’t get blood on my rug,” Mrs. Hudson calls as she tosses the rag down the stairs, inspects the floor, then follows it down to the landing and her own flat. When they hear the door close, John turns back to Sherlock.  
“Well now I’m glad we didn’t tell her about the blood debacle last year,” he laughs.  
Sherlock grins.   
“It isn’t funny. How you could think boiling human blood would help out in a case about infidelity is beyond me,” Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and John shakes his head, “though I’m sure you have some ingenious reason why it did, but you should have at least put down a mat. How she hasn’t found that stain yet is amazing.”   
Sherlock lets his mouth curl upward before asking, “You know you’re bleeding too?”  
“Right. Well, let me take care of you first, then I’ll fix my own lip.”   
Sherlock closes his eyes when John asks him to and feels John’s warm fingers gently poking at his face. When John lets his fingers drift under Sherlock’s chin to twist his head to the side, something in Sherlock’s chest expands and he leaves his eyes closed to enjoy the feeling of John’s hands taking care of him.  
“All done,” John says too soon. Sherlock opens his eyes and watches John stand. Sherlock sets his shoulders. Pushing himself up by the edge of the couch, he locks his legs in the hopes of standing. John doesn’t see him right away; he’s too busy zipping up the small first aid kit. When he does turn, he lunges for Sherlock before he sees it. Sherlock has managed to lift himself to his feet and is standing without help. It clearly isn’t easy for him; he’s swaying back and forth, but he’s on his feet.   
If Sherlock didn’t feel proud of himself in that moment, when he saw the look of naked adoration on John’s face he would have changed his mind. As it was, the pride swelled in his chest to include affection and it strengthened his legs. He takes one wobbling step forward and then another until he’s standing right in front of John. John has a bandage on his lip and a smile in his eyes. Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s phone from his hands. John must have picked it up when he’d stood up. Flicking through it, he brings it to his ear.  
“Yes, it’s me. Expect us tomorrow,” he says.  
Hanging up he hands the phone back to John and grins so it nearly splits his face. John pats his shoulder and they both look to the window where a new day has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters so far because it was so fun to write. I hope you enjoy it and as always, thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12: A Man, a Goat and a Blue Ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without John there he fears he is a coward. He doesn’t want to stand without John to catch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of filler mostly but I enjoyed writing it so much. David is growing in character which I wasn't expecting but I'm enjoying. I hope you don't mind a bit of a dive into their relationships with each other before we get back to the crime fighting. As always, I don't have medical training and any mistakes were made possible by bad Google information. Enjoy!

Sherlock dreams he’s sitting on a bench looking out over the pier. He’d only gone to the pier a few times as a child but he remembers it perfectly. The water and the swaying boats. In this dream he is barefoot and alone. The clouds move in patterns and somewhere music is playing. It sounds like a song he’d composed months before and the melody skips along the water like stones. He watches the ripples.  
“Sherlock?”   
He smiles before he even turns. John is standing on the water. The boats roll around him. He grins back but something is wrong. John is wobbling. Sherlock feels his smile drop.   
“Sherlock?” John says again.   
Sherlock begins to run. John is sinking beneath the waves.  
“John!” he cries out.   
John sinks deeper. “Sherlock?”   
Sherlock catches his wrist before he slides under. He sees the water is thick, heavy. Holding tight to John, he leans in.  
“Sherlock,” John says, “it’s alright. You’re alright. Just breathe.”  
The words echo those of the night before. The night panic ripped through his chest. He watches John’s eyes.   
“It’s alright. It’s my turn,” he says.  
Sherlock can’t hold on. He tries but he can’t. John sinks under. Sherlock’s hand holds nothing but air. Sinking onto the dock he watches the water. John is gone. He is alone. 

Sherlock jerks awake and it is morning. It is the type of morning London enjoys where the sun is bright and the wind doesn’t beat at the windows. He feels sick to his stomach. John is asleep beside him, his hand curled over Sherlock’s heart. He feels his pulse calm as he looks at John. The dream had terrified him in a way the nightmares of his coma hadn’t. Maybe it’s because he’s seen what he can have again and in the dream he lost it, or maybe it’s about something else but he’s too exhausted to think it through.   
He rolls onto his side and glories in the fact that the movement feels natural. There are still holes in the words he can say and he knows he won’t be running anytime soon, but he’s learning to accept small victories. John’s hand had slid to the bedspread with the movement and almost immediately, John opens his eyes. He sees Sherlock’s face close to his and smiles, half asleep. Sherlock stills. He knows that moment. The one between being asleep and waking. The moment when you aren’t sure something is a dream or reality. John with a content smile and soft eyes is in that moment. Sherlock snaps his eyes shut.  
It’s only a breath before John groans and rolls onto his back.   
“Morning,” he says, stretching his arms over his head.   
Sherlock opens his eyes slowly as if he too is waking up. “Morning,” he says hoping his voice doesn’t give him away.   
John stretches his legs and sits up. “So, what time do you want to go meet with Lestrade?” he asks.  
He’s checking his watch when Sherlock looks over and for a moment Sherlock wants to touch John’s back just to feel that he’s solid. He turns back, waiting for an answer and Sherlock breathes out a loud sigh.  
“As soon as we can, preferably,” he answers.  
“Well, we have to do some therapy first. See if you can walk like you did yesterday, get some food in you- don’t worry, no porridge I know how you despise it- then we can go.”  
John has always had an efficiency about him. He speaks with strength and even when he’s confused, he’s never sloppy. He snaps on his watch, pulls the change of clothes he’d laid out the night before into his arms and heads for the washroom.  
“I’m going to have a shower. Do you want a bath? I’ll help you in after if you like,” he says.  
“No. No, I’ll have one later.”  
John smiles quickly and disappears. Sherlock blinks, thinking. His dreams couldn’t mean much more than he’s afraid to lose John. He already knew that. He knew that when he stood on the roof of Bart’s and watched Moriarty put a gun in his mouth. It isn’t news; it’s just somewhat surprising to be dreaming of it. It had only taken four short weeks to find the strings of Moriarty’s crime web (after the criminal had died, no one of significance had managed to take over) and then to hunt down the men who had been assigned to kill his friends. Sherlock wasn’t a hero but he killed all three himself. Moran had been last. He’d been a thin man with strong arms and hawk eyes. He’d been tough to find and even tougher to kill but it had been for John so he’d done it. Sherlock was lucky and he knew it. Moran had gotten sloppy with the last shot or Sherlock would be dead. Maybe someday he’d tell John about that day. It wouldn’t be today; he doesn’t want to make John feel even more upset.   
He listens to the water running in the bathroom and wriggles himself to the edge of the bed. Steading himself, he swings his legs until his feet hit the floor. Today is a good day. He can feel the cool wood beneath his toes. Some days he can’t feel below his knees but today tingles rush up his legs.   
His mouth is a grim line as he inches forward. Without John there he fears he is a coward. He doesn’t want to stand without John to catch him. Sherlock doesn’t want to be alone.   
The thought makes him pause. He remembers his talk with Mycroft in the morgue when they believed Irene Adler was dead. “Caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft had said. He’d been right and wrong at the same time. Sherlock knows his brother would never understand that thought and he dismisses it quickly. He isn’t ready to go there quite yet.  
He hears the water shut off. Hears John humming as he stands by the sink. Sherlock can picture John brushing his teeth and methodically putting on his layers. How one man can wear so many layers and not get bored while getting dressed is a mystery to Sherlock akin to that of the solar system, but unlike the solar system, he’s somewhat interested in the answer.   
When he hears John’s humming nearing the door, he pushes himself to his feet.   
It isn’t easy and it doesn’t feel quite right, but he doesn’t fall. When John pushes open the door, Sherlock is staring at his feet as he walks carefully across the room. He’s like a child figuring out his feet can carry him and he makes a whoop of joy when he reaches the window.   
John grins and drops his dirty clothes on the bed. “Come on; let’s see if you can get to the kitchen. I’ll make some toast and eggs.”

They make it to the kitchen without much incident (“watch the walls, we don’t want any more holes!”) and Sherlock collapses at the table where David is nursing a bowl of porridge and a black eye. He looks at Sherlock like a weary animal. Sherlock smiles. Only John knows it’s a fake smile as he goes about the kitchen.   
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” David says, his voice guarded.   
Sherlock shrugs. John hands him a cup of tea and Sherlock flicks his eyes up with a small curve to his lips. It’s a thank you and John pats the back of his chair as he moves past the table.   
“Would you like some eggs? Toast?” he asks David to be polite.   
“Nope, got myself some porridge,” he taps the bowl with his spoon.  
John continues making his breakfast as David hums deep in his throat. Sherlock snaps up the paper aggressively. John raises his eyebrows but doesn’t turn. He wonders for a moment where the other two men are. John hasn’t seen them in a few days. The toast pops as David clears his throat.  
“You’ve got a strong arm on you, doctor,” he says.   
John has no real problem with David. He understands Sherlock and his petulant behavior to outsiders, but he truly has no issues with the man. It was only when Sherlock could have been injured that he’d reacted. It was a pavlovian response by now. Sherlock is threated, John reacts. He finds himself chuckling when he thinks about making Sherlock wear a bell. At least then he’d know where he was when he wandered off.   
“Yep,” he replies to David.   
He piles eggs and toast on a plate and sits at the table. The only way to make Sherlock eat is to offer him John’s plate to pick off of. John found out about that annoying habit after a particularly long case about a hooker, the sewers and an unexpected American spy. It had been a popular one for the papers but all John remembers about it is Sherlock stealing his noodles from across the table and the way the little waitress smiled coyly at them when she handed them the check.   
He hands Sherlock a fork, places the butter between them and tucks into his side of the plate. He’s learned that sitting next to Sherlock makes it easier for both of them. John being left handed and Sherlock being right, they can easily share one plate without leaving a mess between them. John butters his toast and notices before Sherlock can say a word that he forgot the jam. He gets up, opens the fridge, pushes aside the marmalade and apples to find the raspberry jam Sherlock likes at the back. He unscrews the cap and places it in front of Sherlock before taking his seat.  
Sherlock dips the butter knife into the jam before John can stop him. John sighs and takes Sherlock’s knife so he can use a clean one for his own toast. He doesn’t like jam very much and would rather not have it smudged on his food. Their movements are synchronized and John looks up to see David watching with his mouth hanging open.  
“You look like a carp. Magnificent creatures really but not something a person wants to be akin to,” Sherlock says pleasantly.   
David snaps his mouth shut with a murderous look. John swallows his eggs with a grimace.  
“Sherlock, if he tries to punch you now I won’t help you.”  
David can’t help but grin and appreciate Doctor Watson for a moment. He goes back to his breakfast while Sherlock plows through the plate of eggs with a vengeance.   
“You said you weren’t that hungry,” John says with annoyance.   
“And you always tell me to eat more,” Sherlock shoots back.  
John pushes the nearly empty plate at Sherlock and stands. “We have apples.”  
David doesn’t see any sort of acknowledgment from Sherlock who continues to eat the eggs with a single minded enjoyment but John nods and pulls the apples from the fridge, offering one to Sherlock.  
“Knife.” Sherlock says as he takes it.   
“Right.” John wipes the butter knife on a napkin and hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock makes a face.  
“If you want a clean one, you can get it,” John says with companionable annoyance.  
Sherlock huffs but uses the knife without further complaint. David is appalled.   
“Are you sure you two aren’t married?” he asks before he can stop himself.   
Two sets of eyes look up at him with startled clarity.   
“We aren’t a couple,” John says almost automatically.   
“So I’ve been told but it’s rather hard to tell,” David replies incredulously.   
Sherlock clears his throat. “Right. Well. Can we get to the therapy part of today so you can call Mycroft and sign off on me heading to Scotland Yard? I know how much he loves to hear that I wiggled my toes today,” he says viciously.   
John shakes his head at the ceiling before standing and sweeping away the plate. “Eat the apple, I’ll call your brother and for god’s sake, let David do his job without making him want to kill you. I know it’s tough, but play nice.”  
Sherlock grumbles as John leaves the room. David grins and plans to get back at Sherlock with a vengeance.

“Good morning, Mycroft,” John says shortly when Mycroft picks up.   
“I’ve heard he’s standing. Walking even. It seems my brother thrives on painful experiences,” Mycroft says. He knows about the scuffle the day before.   
“Yes, I’m well thank you for asking,” John snaps.  
Something about Mycroft is annoying in the morning. Then again, Mycroft could be annoying in the dead of night just as easily. John concedes that Mycroft is a stick in the mud during a flood.   
“I didn’t realize we have to chat now,” Mycroft says sharply.   
“No, no we surely don’t. Well. We’re heading to Scotland Yard today and before your little nurse puppet calls you to give the progress report I thought I’d tell you there’s no stopping us.”  
“I can hardly ever stop Sherlock from doing things he wishes to do, why would I start now?” Mycroft asks.  
“For kicks and giggles?” John leans on the wall and looks at the cracks in the ceiling.   
“I worry about my brother, John but I worry less when he is in your care. Call me when you return.”  
Mycroft hangs up before John can digest that statement. He is left looking at the phone with an odd expression on his face until David rounds the corner and announces he will throttle Sherlock if he has to spend any more time alone with him. After that, the morning is a blur and Mycroft is forgotten until they get to Scotland Yard.

They’re arguing about the cane when they reach their destination.  
“It’s tacky,” Sherlock complains.  
“Not everything you own needs to be posh,” John snaps back.  
Sherlock is leaning on John’s old cane as he hobbles from the cab to the door. John pulls open the door and lets Sherlock inside.   
“I’d rather not be seen holding something so dismal,” Sherlock says.  
Johns sighs noisily before he realizes all of Scotland Yard has gone quiet.   
He’d phoned ahead so Lestrade would know they were on their way but apparently being told the great Sherlock Holmes was still alive was nothing to seeing him. Sherlock had refused a hat so his odd haircut gave a testimony to his trials over the past months and his obvious use of the cane could draw sympathy if it wasn’t for the fact that most of the people in front of them had been insulted by Sherlock at least once in their lives.   
No one speaks until John clears his throat. “Is Lestrade in his office?”  
Officer Blake, a man whom Sherlock had once told would be better suited for life as a housekeeper because his hands were so small, answers with a gruff ‘yes’ and hides his hands under his desk.  
If Sherlock remembers him, he shows no sign. He limps through the room with his jaw set and John follows. In this world, John always follows.   
They find Lestrade in his office eating something brown and greasy. Sherlock scrunches up his face and folds into a chair in front of the desk. John stands.   
“I’ve pulled four files for you to choose from. They aren’t your usual caliber, but they might prove to be a challenge and we need them closed quickly.” Lestrade gestures to the files he has on his desk and wipes his hands on his pants.  
“So your wife is sleeping with the gym teacher again,” Sherlock says conversationally as he picks up the files.   
“Sherlock,” John chides but Lestrade shakes his head.  
“It’s alright, John.”  
Sherlock is busy with the files. He’s hung the cane on the arm rest and is letting his eyes fly over the paper.  
“No. It’s obviously the husband.” He flicks the file down.  
“No, there’s a gardener for god’s sakes.” Crumpling the top paper, he drops the file onto his lap.   
“Possibly, though if the sister has a blue binder and a penchant for horses I’d say she’s your girl.” He looks up for this one with a wicked glint in his eyes before letting it fall as well.   
“This one I can handle,” he snaps the last file shut and holds it out the John. The other three lay across his lap in a heap.   
John has long since grown used to Sherlock’s bounds and leaps to the right conclusion but that doesn’t make it any less extraordinary. He shakes his head in silent awe. Taking the file, he flips through it while Sherlock watches.   
A man, a goat, a blue ribbon and vintage tractor wheels. John nearly laughs. Life is about to get interesting again.


	13. Chapter 13: When the Pieces Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, your brother will have me killed if I let you get pneumonia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter seems to ramble. I had a point I wanted to get to, but like always, the characters have their own ways of moving through the story so they had to stop along the way.

In 221B there is a racket. A crashing racket. It’s Sherlock musing about a new case. Despite his need for the cane he still manages to pin up the information while stumbling around the flat. It’s only when John shoves him into a chair does he realize he has an audience. The other two men who were sent to guard them are standing in the doorway with David. All three have their mouths hanging open in confusion. John stands in front of him, ignoring the stares of the three outsiders.  
“John, what do you see?” he turns away from the men with visible defiance.  
“Uh…the man was run over by a Lanz Bulldog tractor while at an agricultural fair. The wheels of this particular tractor are very unique, at least that’s what the notes say, and could only belong to a handful of machines there. The wheel crushed his wind pipe though from the looks of these notes, it wasn’t conclusive that it was cause of death. Lestrade believes the competition, a man named Charley Brighton, ran him over with the tractor when his goat lost in the livestock competition,” John says.  
“Obvious,” Sherlock states. He gestures with his long fingers to the wall. John sighs.  
“Well, it seems the victim was kicked by a goat at some point during the day. His own goat that did win the competition,” John amends.  
“Don’t just look, John, observe,” Sherlock leans back, putting his feet on the table and kicking over a cup of tea. John glares at him while he clears it from the floor.  
“Tell me if you’re so keen,” John replies.  
“It’s obvious! Obvious! Let me see your phone,” Sherlock snaps.  
“Glad to see you’re back to your old self,” John says, handing over his phone.  
Sherlock holds his wrist when he turns to go. Typing quickly with one hand he flicks his gaze up when he’s finished. “Time to go,” he says.  
“Go where?”  
David begins to protest from the door but John stops him with a shake of his head.  
“To the scene of the crime of course! I can’t do this just by these notes. A child took these. A stupid person. Anderson,” Sherlock gestures wildly.  
“I need to see it, John! See it to understand it. I have an idea, of course, but to finish it off I need to know.” He’s tapping his head and flinging his hands, but he doesn’t stand. John sees his foot twitch and he kneels swiftly.  
He takes Sherlock’s foot and begins to pull his shoe off. Sherlock jerks. “John, what are you doing?”  
“I’m checking your foot. Shut up. It is bloody possible that Mycroft will lock you in this flat if you aren’t careful and I’d rather not be the one to blame for you tumbling down the stairs because your foot went numb.”  
Sherlock begins to protest.  
“If you let me do this, I’ll let you look through the cold cases,” John says.  
Sherlock’s weakness is cold cases. He finds them challenging. There is no longer a fresh crime scene and with the oldest ones, the witnesses are either no longer reliable or dead. He likes the thrill of figuring something out all on his own. He frowns but John knows it’s only because he doesn’t want to admit it’s a good deal.  
John holds Sherlock’s foot and the room is silent. He’s going to check it anyway and everyone knows it but he’s waiting to see if he needs to force Sherlock or if Sherlock will let him. David snickers.  
“Aren’t you a pretty princess,” he says with a laugh. John closes his eyes for a moment as Sherlock sneers. It seems that David and Sherlock will never get along no matter how long they’re stuck in a flat together. Sherlock shakes out his body before deciding.  
He wiggles his foot more firmly into John’s hand and says, “Alright, check it, but we’re still going to Scotland Yard and I want three hours with the cold case files.”  
“Lestrade will have to sign off on it,” John says, trying to be fair.  
“He will,” Sherlock dismisses it and wiggles his toes once more.  
John peels off the sock ad begins to prod at Sherlock’s foot. He’d called into his job that morning to let them know he would be out for a while. They’d all read the papers. They knew why. They all knew his relationship with the great Sherlock Holmes. No one complained and now he had all the time in the world to take care of Sherlock. He suspected they were waiting to get rid of him since he’d only been replacing a doctor who had been on maternity leave and had since returned. It isn’t a big loss for him or for the office and he wonders if he’ll ever go back there. Turning back to the problem at hand, he pokes at Sherlock’s heel and toes. Twists the foot gently.  
“Flex.”  
“Okay. Point your toes.”  
“Can you feel this?”  
Sherlock quietly and obediently follows the instructions until one of the men Sherlock ad John haven’t bothered to know says, “Bloody hell, how does he do that?”  
Both men look up and David makes a hasty retreat to the kitchen. He knows what could be coming and doesn’t wish to be in another brawl. He can feel the condescending tone with which the man speaks and he knows from experience that both Sherlock and john are highly protective of the other. No matter who the man is patronizing, it won’t end well. He’s seen the tenacity John Watson has when Sherlock is in danger. He doesn’t want another black eye.  
The man who’s name neither John or Sherlock knows, smirks. He’s tall and broad but John knows he could take him down. He’s a retired body guard hired by Mycroft to watch them but not interfere. He’s an easy target if necessary.  
“Do what?” Sherlock asks dangerously.  
He knows. Of course he knows what the man is asking. He’s giving him an out. A chance to back off before something bad happens. Anyone who knew anything about Sherlock and John knew that their pressure points were one another. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Sherlock that David had moved as far as possible away from the man. Sherlock had hunted Moran through the world to kill him before he could get to John and John had shot a cabbie because he’d given Sherlock an ultimatum. They are not men to mess with and Sherlock curls his lip in anger. He watches the man and waits.  
“He makes you damn near domestic. Who knew the great Sherlock Holmes could be declawed by a military doctor with questionable intent,” the man guffaws.  
John moves before Sherlock can. He moves quickly. He pins Sherlock to the chair by his arms, so close his breath fans across Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t you dare move if you want to go anywhere today,” he warns.  
John has his knee between Sherlock’s legs and he pushes off with his legs so he doesn’t hurt Sherlock’s arms. He turns to the man with calm anger.  
“You work for Mycroft,” he states.  
“Yes,” the man says. He’s unsure where the conversation is going.  
“Right. Sherlock? May I have my phone?”  
Sherlock hands the phone back with a small grin. He isn’t above using his brother when it’s necessary.  
John dials Mycroft while watching the men. David sits at the kitchen table, his eyes large saucers in his face.  
“Hello. Yes I know you’re busy. I just wanted to let you know one of your guards has….offended your brother. Yes I know. Usually the other way around, I know. Yes. Of course. Right.” John holds out the phone.  
“Your boss,” he says.  
The man takes the phone hesitantly. As Mycroft speaks, the man pales. Finally, he hands the phone back with a trembling hand and John smiles so it doesn’t reach his eyes.  
“Leaving?” he asks pleasantly. The man nods numbly.  
“Right, off you go then.”  
With that, John turns back to Sherlock. Sherlock is grinning. They hear the man trudge down the stairs and for once, John is grateful for Mycroft. Mycroft hadn’t even given him a chance to collect his things. There was something to be said for being close to someone who ran the British government.  
“Very good, John. Now help me up. We need to catch a cab before rush hour.”  
“What…why?” John asks.  
“The goat, John!” Sherlock is struggling to stand, pushing on the arms of the chair but in his excitement, he can’t seem to coordinate his limbs. John grabs his arm and hoists him up, handing him the cane.  
“I’m not seeing what you’re saying,” John says. He picks Sherlock’s coat off the hanger and helps him into it ignoring the scarf hanging until Sherlock makes a noise in his throat. Sighing, he loops it around the detective’s neck. John has gotten used to helping Sherlock. He was used to it even before he’d lost the man, now it just took more effort.  
“The goat, it kicked the man,” he’s saying the sentence as if it holds a world of meaning but John simply shrugs. He isn’t as quick as Sherlock when it comes to figuring these things out.  
“It kicked him. Why? When? Why would he get run over by a tractor? Who plans for something like that? Wouldn’t that be a messy and loud way to murder someone with real intent? We need to see,” Sherlock babbles.  
“Right. Take your damn cane,” John shoves the cane at Sherlock and the man frowns, taking it and hobbling to the door.  
“Funny little brain,” Sherlock mutters to himself, lowering himself down the stairs with John behind him.

It’s cold and Sherlock is lying on the ground inspecting the grass. John shivers.  
“Sherlock, your brother will have me killed if I let you get pneumonia.”  
Sherlock shakes his head and continues his study. John shivers some more and shifts his weight as the wind blows around them.  
“Help me up, John!” he calls suddenly and John helps to heave Sherlock up. His head whips back and forth as Lestrade pulls up in his police car. He ignores the Inspector and grumbles to himself while kicking at the grass.  
Lestrade wordlessly holds out two cups of coffee as he walks over which John accepts with a grateful smile. He and John move to the side of the road, watching Sherlock lean on the cane, his hair on the left blowing in the breeze.  
“How’s he doing?” Lestrade asks.  
John shrugs. “Something about the goat.”  
Lestrade sighs. “Sherlock, I’ve given you more time than I should, what have you got?”  
“Anderson really should find another profession,” Sherlock mutters. He leans down, running his fingers over the grass before straightening.  
“Sherlock,” Lestrade calls before sipping his own coffee. Sherlock sighs and leans backward a bit, rocking on his heels before turning to John and Lestrade.  
John hands over the second cup of coffee as Sherlock moves over to them. He’s leaning on the cane in a way that shows he’s tired but John knows it isn’t the time to comment on it. Sherlock holds the cup but doesn’t drink from it. John and Lestrade wait.  
“Well, it wasn’t the tractor that killed him. It rolled the wrong way for that,” he says.  
“It snapped his spine,” Lestrade strains. He looks tired and he sips his coffee slowly.  
“Yes, but look, he sunk in. The way his spine snapped he would have died a lot slower than he did. He was dead as soon as it rolled off him. As soon as the man claims he noticed. It was muddy; he had manure on his boots. A man like that wouldn’t just let a tractor run him over. He would know when it was too close, when it would be hurting him. He would have shouted. No, the tractor is just circumstance. He had a goat that the logs say won the livestock competition, but where is the ribbon? Man like this, lives off the land, would keep that ribbon on him or on the animal itself. You didn’t see the ribbon anywhere. No, the man most likely had placed it on the animal and somehow ended up hurt before he fell under that tractor.”  
Sherlock stumbles suddenly and John moves to catch him. He’s tipped to the right and John lowers him to the side of the road. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes he sees misery and he looks down.  
“Can you feel my hands?” he asks Sherlock quietly. Lestrade kneels beside them, looking worried.  
Sherlock opens his mouth, stutters, mouths something and closes his mouth with a snap. He blinks twice. John feels the sadness for his friend aching in his chest. Sherlock can’t catch his words. He’s too tired and he’s done too much in one day.  
“I knew I should have said no to this,” he says softly.  
He gently feels along Sherlock’s leg. It trembles. Sherlock growls as John pushes under his knee but John ignores him to keep feeling along the leg. He finishes his assessment and looks up at Lestrade.  
“Could you open the door? We need to get him home.”  
“I’m….fine,” Sherlock manages to grind out.  
John looks at Sherlock. “No, you aren’t. You got to get out. You have this case. We’ll go home, look over the evidence, you’ll eat something and maybe tomorrow we can revisit this traveling thing.”  
Sherlock pouts but doesn’t argue as Lestrade and John help him into the car. Lestrade slams the door shut before turning to John.  
“Christ, what have you done to him? He’s always been more accommodating of you but this is bloody docile.”  
Sherlock is staring at them through the car window with squinted eyes and John puts his hand up to show they’re just talking. Sherlock frowns.  
“He’s been different since he’s come back. He doesn’t talk about what happened but we’ll get there,” John pulls his coat tighter around him and Lestrade claps him on the back.  
“It’s a shame, seeing him like this.”  
“Yeah, well he won’t say it, but he missed this. He’s glad to see you. It’s been somewhat tough,” John sips his coffee while Sherlock bangs on the window.  
“I can’t see Sherlock Holmes ever being able to stay still for a minute, let alone for days,” Lestrade replies, pulling open the door. John shakes his head. “I’ll sit in the back with Sherlock.”  
Lestrade lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything as John moves into the back seat. He pretends not to see John lift Sherlock’s chin and inspect the bruising along his cheek or the way Sherlock smiles and touches the hand on his face. He’d ignored the bandages on both men and hadn’t asked. He tries not to watch John run his fingertip over the bruise gently. Getting into the car, he catches the end of the conversation. John is chiding Sherlock.  
“If it starts to hurt, just tell me.”  
“You would have insisted we go home,” Sherlock whines.  
“Well of course. You aren’t ready for all of this yet,” John says.  
Lestrade starts up the car and tries to overcome the urge to drive over the speed limit to escape the cozy scene behind him. He’d always known that somehow John Watson managed to balance out Sherlock but now they seemed to move in their own world. They orbit each other with almost no regard for the others around them. He tries not to look in the rear view mirror as they speak.  
“I was solving the case!”  
“You’ve seen the crime scene; you can solve the case at home. From the couch.”  
“You won’t tell Mycroft about this,” Sherlock says dully.  
“No, but I will tell David,” John rubs Sherlock’s leg and it twitches beneath his fingers.  
Sherlock snatches John’s hands away from his body and very nearly shouts, “No! No, not that git!”  
“Sherlock, you’ve insulted him at every possible turn. It’s only rational that he doesn’t like you. He does, however, need to know about this. You aren’t fully healed and I’m betting that punch to the head and half strangulation you took yesterday isn’t helping. I must have been mad to let you do this today,” John sounds tired.  
Lestrade is pulling to a stop at a light when he looks in the mirror. Sherlock has reached to John and cupped his cheek in his hand. His eyes rake over John in a way that would be invasive if it wasn’t Sherlock.  
“You haven’t been sleeping. Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock demands.  
John shrugs the hand away and Lestrade turns his eyes back to the road. He is acutely uncomfortable and curses the car in front of him that seems to be inching along.  
“Because you haven’t been sleeping either and I’m not the one recovering.”  
“Aren’t you?”  
It’s Lestrade who speaks, surprising himself and the two men in the back seat. He never wanted to be a part of their argument but he can’t seem to stop himself. He’d seen John in the four weeks after Sherlock’s demise and had been scared the man would either shoot himself or drive himself mad trying to find Sherlock. He’d actually been surprised in the month that Sherlock had returned home because he hadn’t heard from John. It wasn’t until he’d gotten a call from Mycroft that he’d understood what had been happening. He’d almost been too nervous to call John before that out of fear. He didn’t want to find out he’d somehow missed the memo that John Watson had killed himself. It had been a relief to find out he was alive, and somewhat of a shock to find out John had been right all along.  
Sherlock composes his face while John stutters.  
“Quite right, Inspector,” he says stiffly.  
. If Lestrade didn’t know better, he would swear Sherlock looks hurt by the accusation.  
It seems to be perfect timing for Lestrade to pull up on Baker Street. Sherlock shoves open the door and struggles out of the car while John protests. He spares a glance at Lestrade before climbing out after Sherlock. Lestrade nods, his lips a thin and grim line. John doesn’t respond but instead moves quickly into Baker Street.

Sherlock makes it up the stairs before the panic settles into his chest. He can feel the air restricting in his lungs and he nearly collapses onto the couch. He presses a trembling hand to his chest but can’t seem to press hard enough for it to help. He can hear John on the stairs and he closes his eyes.  
He knows he destroyed John. He knows that if he hadn’t been shot, he would have kept hurting John with his absence and now, even being home in their flat, he’s still hurting John. Even though John isn’t the one who was shot, he is the one who watched Sherlock fall. He is the one who cried for Sherlock when it seemed the world was against him. People might think he doesn’t understand emotions, but he knew John cared. He knew John cared deeply. No one put up with him for that long, not even his own brother but John had stayed. John had saved his life and kept him in check so he didn’t alienate everyone he knew. John saved him.  
The air whistles through his teeth. John has reached the landing.  
“Jesus, Sherlock, relax. It’s fine. I’m fine,” John kneels between Sherlock’s legs and watches him.  
“Help…pressure…” Sherlock gasps.  
John sees Sherlock’s hand shaking and pushes it away. For a fleeting moment, he’s glad David isn’t there to see this. No matter what it stems from, injury or no, this is a personal moment that David has no right to. He presses against Sherlock’s chest with gentle strength.  
“Greg doesn’t know what he’s saying. I’m fine. I’ve just been worried about you. Just breathe, I’m fine.”  
The warm and constant pressure of John’s hand eases the pain that lances through Sherlock and he breathes deeply. John doesn’t move his hand but speaks softly.  
“Sherlock, it’s fine. Really. I’m just relieved you’re still here.”  
Sherlock opens his eyes. “I…didn’t mean to…hurt you. I didn’t know my impact on you.”  
John laughs but it’s an empty sounds. “Then you’re dumber than I thought. You’re brilliant, but you aren’t very smart, are you?”  
He grins and Sherlock feels the warmth in his chest again blooming from his heart and out into his fingertips. He remembers his dream and suddenly, he needs John to know.  
“I can’t…I don’t…don’t go. I lost my words earlier…I couldn’t say it…you…you bring me back. Don’t go. ”  
Sherlock is hesitant. John doesn’t know what to say. He nearly trips over his own words to reassure Sherlock.  
“I’m not going anywhere. Jesus. I’m sorry I wasn’t here a lot when this first started. I was anxious, that’s all. I’m not going anywhere.”  
Sherlock still looks scared. “I left you,” he says quietly.  
“Yes, you did and when you’re all better, I’ll make you pay for it, but we aren’t like that. You know that. If I left every time you left me, I’d have been gone that very first day. I’m not going anywhere without you and I’m not leaving just because I’m angry with you.”  
John makes it sound like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Sherlock can’t stop the small smile that buds.  
“Stop grinning at me like that’s news,” John chuckles. He lets his hand drop and Sherlock lets out a small mewl of protest before he can stop himself. John lifts his eyebrows.  
“I feel better when you do that,” Sherlock says.  
John places his hand back on Sherlock’s chest and shakes his head with a grin.  
“So do you want to look over the case files? You have to stay right there but we can talk this through. You can tell me what really happened.”  
Sherlock nods and John stands to get the file. As John begins to move away, Sherlock catches his wrist. John turns.  
“I…” he trails off. The rest of the words stick in his chest and he tries to clear his throat.  
John looks concerned. “Did you lose the words again?” He leans over Sherlock to look at his face.  
John is so close, his wrist warm, his pulse steady. He’s worried and now Sherlock knows he won’t leave. Won’t leave no matter what Sherlock does. Sherlock feels overwhelmed. He shakes his head.  
“I…” he tries again. The words still won’t come. With a growl of annoyance, he pulls John closer. Catching him off guard, he presses his lips to John’s.


	14. Chapter 14: A new Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is grinning when he kisses Sherlock for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but sweet ;)

John blinks in surprise but doesn’t pull away. If he’s honest with himself, he’s thought about this. Not often but rather in those fleeting moments when Sherlock stands too close and smiles or when he’s bounding around the flat trying to figure something out that John doesn’t fully understand. It’s been nagging feeling in his chest but nothing he couldn’t push away. It was something to ignore, but it was there in the back of his mind.   
Sherlock is warm which is somewhat surprising. He would have thought Sherlock would be cool, but his lips nearly burn. His mouth is soft and yielding. John steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He doesn’t break the kiss and instead lets his mouth open in a small invitation. Sherlock flicks his tongue against John’s lips and when the smooth tip of Sherlock’s tongue meets his own, John feels something wet slide along his cheek. He pulls back.  
“Sherlock,” he says huskily.  
Sherlock is crying. John wipes the tear from his own face before kneeling once more between Sherlock’s legs. He gently swipes the tears from Sherlock’s eyes and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s.   
“Sherlock, it’s alright,” he says again.  
“I…I don’t want…to lose you. Again,” Sherlock struggles with the words. He closes his eyes.   
“You’re an idiot,” John says with affection. “I said I’m not leaving and I’m not. Is that why you…?”  
Sherlock’s eyes fly open with the question and he shakes his head so vigorously John worries he’s going to give himself a concussion. “No! No, that isn’t why. Not at all.”  
He doesn’t offer up any other explanation and John asks with a small smile,  
“Are you going to tell me why? I’m not a genius; I can’t just guess these things.”  
“Because…well because I love you,” Sherlock says, his eyes giant saucers in his slim face. He says it as if John knows. As if it’s something they’ve both said over and over.   
John begins to laugh after a moment of surprise. He leans into Sherlock so each chuckle brushes their lips together.  
“You’re impossible,” he laughs.  
“John, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put you through all that. I’m sorry I had to,” Sherlock says earnestly.   
“I know. I know. You’re such an idiot sometimes,” John laughs.  
“Why are you laughing?” Sherlock pushes John back so he can see his face. He can’t help but adore John when he laughs. He lets go of the solider persona for those moments and he looks younger and happier. Sherlock would do anything to make John laugh; it’s one of his favorite experiments. He can’t help but grin in return as John laughs even as he waits for an answer.   
“Because you’re…god, Sherlock,” John is grinning when he kisses Sherlock for the first time.   
The first kiss belonged to Sherlock but this kiss belongs to John. He leans in and tips his head. He tastes Sherlock’s surprise. His tears. To him, Sherlock isn’t broken, he’s perfect. There’s a long road for them to struggle along but when he puts his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and holds him still with fingers curled in the detective’s sleeve, there is nothing that can convince him Sherlock is anything but glorious.   
When he pulls back he smiles. “And no, I didn’t mean you are god, so don’t go using that one against me.”  
They smile at each other for a moment. John doesn’t take his hands off of Sherlock and Sherlock runs his fingers along John’s lower lip before letting his arm fall.  
“So. The goat.”  
John rolls his eyes and leans back. Sherlock can always be relied on to make even the best moments logical.   
“Yes, the goat.” John smiles despite himself.  
Sherlock claps his hands and puts his heels on the coffee table. “Let’s get on with the case,” he says with a wicked grin. 

John falls asleep all at once. He’s spent the day running in mental circles around Sherlock who seemed energized after they’d returned home. He’d solved the case while John was dozing off and had spouted the answers while David forced him to walk slowly across the flat to prove his legs could hold him. John had been too tired to congratulate Sherlock or even understand how he’d managed to close the case so he’d simply waved his hand and closed his eyes. He’d sunk into the couch while Sherlock chattered on and David ate his dinner at the kitchen table.  
He’s asleep on the couch and for the first time in a week he can feel his dream as he sinks into it. 

The moon has returned and so has the boy. He’s no longer bleeding. He grins.  
“You love me,” he says.  
John smiles. “I believe I do.”  
The boy slices his wrists with a ray of sunshine. John stumbles forward.  
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt,” the boy says. “It’s an experiment.”   
John kneels. “You shouldn’t do things like that.”  
“Why not?”  
The boy makes another careful cut. There’s molasses leaking from the cut. The boy licks it off with a giggle.  
“Would it be alright if I was older? Would you kiss the boo boo?” the little boy Sherlock offers John his arm.  
John shakes his head. The boy grins. “You would. If I was older, you would fix it.”  
He begins to grow. John backs away until he is looking up at a grown Sherlock who grins down at him with a wicked smile.   
“Will you make it better, John?” he asks.  
He doesn’t mean the cuts on his arms. There is light shining from his head. Even with all of his hair, without the bruising, John can see where the bullet hit. He stands. Steps forward. Takes Sherlock’s head in his hands and lowers it. Kisses the spot. He feels the warmth from the light seep into his mouth. The wound tastes of honey. He closes his eyes and inhales.   
Sherlock pulls back and smiles. “You always make it better.”  
John blinks as the light expands. Blinds him. When it’s gone there is no Sherlock. He looks around.  
“Don’t leave me, John. Don’t ever leave me.” It doesn’t matter where he is. There’s molasses on his fingers.   
John smiles. “I won’t.”

John wakes to Sherlock running his fingers through his hair. The flat is dark save for one lamp.  
“I told David to leave me here. He wanted to put me to bed.”  
John yawns.  
“Was it a nightmare?” Sherlock asks. He’s sat back since John woke and is now nervously twitching his fingers on his legs. Sherlock isn’t comfortable with friendly contact and now he seems uncertain.   
John looks up and smiles blurrily. “No, why do you ask?”  
“You…said my name,” Sherlock answers. His eyes flick away from John’s and he frowns.  
“You git,” John says on a yawn, “how would that mean nightmare?”  
“I just assumed…’”  
“You? You assumed?” John sits up.   
“You’re very protective, John. I…well the only way I would be in your dreams is if you needed to protect me,” Sherlock says defensively, “that would make it a nightmare.”   
John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand. “I dreamt about you but it wasn’t bad. I talked to the younger you and then the you now. I promised you I wouldn’t leave. Does that sound like a nightmare?”  
Sherlock is silent. John checks the time. 12:17. It’s late and he inches to the edge of the couch. He’s beginning to stretch when Sherlock asks abruptly,  
“Do you love me?”   
John pauses. Stands. Turns to Sherlock. Sherlock looks down. “Right. Never mind. I should have known.”  
It makes John immeasurably sad to see Sherlock so sure of the answer. To think that a pause would mean no. It makes John’s heart ache to think Sherlock, the little boy in his dreams and the man in front of him now, believes that no one will love him.  
“It’s alright. We’ll just…ignore this.” Sherlock is babbling.   
He leans forward until he is inches from Sherlock. It’s late. He hasn’t showered. Sherlock hasn’t been to the bath. This isn’t how he wanted to say it. He’d always hoped when he loved someone, truly loved them, he would tell them in a simple but loving gesture. At dinner after a nice night out or in the morning when he’s made the perfect breakfast. This wasn’t his plan but as he looks into Sherlock’s eyes, he forgets it all. This man, this heartbreaking brilliant man deserves love and John is ready to give it to him. He doesn’t look away as he opens his mouth to speak.   
“Sherlock Holmes, you are brilliant; stunning; amazing and I love you,” he says softly.   
Sherlock blinks like an owl for a few seconds and the moments tick by. John doesn’t move. Suddenly, Sherlock smiles. It bursts across his face and lights up his eyes. It doesn’t matter that his hair is two different lengths or that his cheek and eye hurt from being hit. It doesn’t even matter that the answering smile he receives from John opens the split in his lip. To them there was nothing better than that moment of discovery and nothing can destroy it.   
If the two were honest with themselves, they’d know they’d been dancing around this movement since they’d met. Rome wasn’t built in a day but the bond between Sherlock and John was. They’d found each other in a lonely world and had clung to one another and for 5 weeks, they’d been ripped apart. For even longer, John had anguished over the possibility of never getting his Sherlock back. The relief of this moment matches the joy they both feel and John feels the anger in him wither away.  
He kisses the mostly healed bullet wound and sighs when Sherlock’s fingers creep up his chest to sit over his heat. They are content in this position, body heat keeping them warm and newfound emotions making them smile. After what feels like such a long time and an eternity too short, John pulls back.  
“I need to clean up and you need a bath. I’m knackered and you need some rest if you’re hoping to get into the cold cases tomorrow.”  
Sherlock nods his agreement and allows John to help him stand. Together, they walk to Sherlock’s bedroom. Only after he’s helped Sherlock to the bathroom and hears the water running does he begin to turn down the bed and it occurs to him. This isn’t just Sherlock’s room anymore, it’s theirs. It’s been theirs since the night Sherlock came home. Since before he’d had the excuse of the in home care living in his room. He smiles as he changes into his night shirt and pants. Everything is turning out for the better.  
Sherlock bathes without much thought to actually getting clean. He feels as if he’s floating. He never would have thought John would return his feelings. He’d been terrified to ask and terrified to hear the answer. He’s never thought anyone would ever love him. For some time he didn’t believe in love but rather in the chemistry. Now he knows the difference. Irene Adler had been nothing next to John Watson. Loyal, kind, exasperated John Watson who, even when angry and disappointed in Sherlock would help him and care for him. Sherlock doesn’t believe he deserves John but he’s a greedy creature and he isn’t willing to let go.   
He grins to himself as he manages to get out of the bath without help. He is happy. It’s a somewhat new feeling. He finishes his nightly routine alone, unable to wipe the smile from his face. He finds he doesn’t mind it. 

John is asleep when Sherlock makes it back into the bedroom. He knows in the morning John will apologize for not being there to help and Sherlock will shrug it off. He slips into his bed that has grown so much warmer since John has joined it. Snuggling down, he faces John and falls blissfully asleep studying the rise and fall of his chest and the pattern of the breath that drifts across his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where I add my own fan girl squeal about this chapter. Writing it gave me warm fuzzies. Thanks for reading and enjoying and writing all these amazing comments. You guys keep me going :)


	15. Chapter 15: Observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need you,” he says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not an investigator. The case might be improbable, but stick with it please. I'm sorry in advance for any holes in the case.

Sherlock feels her before he knows she’s there. Another dream based in a grey world.   
“Do you think he loves you?”  
“Ms. Adler, this is getting quite…tedious I’m afraid.”  
He’s in her home. The one where he first met her. Where she first mentioned love. He supposes it’s fitting. He can feel her hands in his hair but he can’t see her. Wonders if her teeth are still knives. Her laughter smells like cheap beer as it swirls around his head.   
“Oh, but I know what you like,” she purrs.  
“I assure you, you don’t.”  
“No?”  
She’s on his lap, pressing down against him. He can’t see her face but she’s there. “I know you loved it,” she breathes against his ear. “I know you wanted me. Wanted Jim. Wanted to prove how clever you are. The new sexy. Why settle? Why not just…give in?”  
Her tongue is scratching his neck, catching his ear. He’s chained to the couch. Long links of sheets holding him down. A dominatrix. He can’t push her away. He leans his head back and closes his eyes. He waits. She stops moving.   
“Oh,” she’s drifting away her body no longer a weight on his, “oh I see. Love is an affliction and you’ve given in.”  
He’s free. His arms can move. She’s no longer there but her presence is. He feels her fingers on his shoulder. “Good luck, Mr. Holmes.”

He opens his eyes in the dark of night, recognizing John’s body next to his. Shaking his head to rid himself of the dream and the sticky scent of Irene Adler, he smiles as John’s hand twitches against his chest. Sinking back into his pillow, he closes his eyes in anticipation of the daylight.

It’s raining which makes John’s shoulder ache. He wakes up on his back with his arm lying across Sherlock’s chest. His fingertips are brushing the other man’s side and he can feel Sherlock’s chest rise and fall. He isn’t asleep, John can tell. Rubbing his shoulder, he rolls to his side with a slight wince.  
“So, you solved the case,” he says. His voice is quiet. It’s morning and he fears breaking the delicate shell of first light.   
Sherlock nods.   
“Do we need to call Lestrade?” John asks.  
Sherlock nods again. John begins to roll over when Sherlock catches his shoulder. John stops.   
“Not yet.”   
John smiles and Sherlock feels the familiar warmth in his chest that comes from John’s happiness. John lets himself fall back into the bed.   
“That wasn’t a dream, was it?” Sherlock asks.  
He knows he sounds like a scared child. He can’t seem to stop the nervous twitch in his leg and he watches John with wide eyes.  
John remembers Mycroft’s comment about how easily Sherlock could shatter. He places his palm on the side of Sherlock’s neck and smiles.  
“It wasn’t a dream.”  
Sherlock smalls a tiny smile that says more than his words ever could. John feels his heart swell and he kisses the side of Sherlock’s mouth before he thinks about the movement. He checks his watch and sighs.  
“We do need to get up. Seems we slept in. David must be throwing a fit and I told Lestrade we’d call today. He does worry about you.”  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Only because he needs me.”  
John grins and sits up, leaning over Sherlock with his arms on either side of Sherlock’s head.  
“I need you,” he says softly.  
Sherlock blinks in surprise. John nods with a small smile before rolling away. 

“I’m going to have a shower and you’re going to call Lestrade,” he says as if the moment never happened. There’s a slight tint to his cheeks as he puts his feet on the floor; he smiles at Sherlock. Sherlock feels himself nod. His heart is pounding in his chest as he watches John do his daily routine. When he disappears from sight, Sherlock’s mind begins to race.  
John had said he loved him. John had kissed him on his own. John had allowed himself to be kissed. John had said he needed him. This is not how he’d pictured his life but somehow he can’t bring himself to care. When he’d met the doctor he’d expected another idiot ready to tear into him for noticing things he couldn’t help but notice. He’d long stopped being offended when people called him a freak or a monster. He hadn’t been ready for the admiration. John had knocked him off stride. He’d allowed John into his life with the vague notion that being seen as more than human was better than being seen as less. Somewhere in that time, he’d grown to care for the other man. Moriarty had called John his pet, but John was more than that. John was loyal, willing to die for Sherlock. John was his only friend. The only one who took his abuse and still came back. John was indispensable. John was a part of him that Sherlock hadn’t known he’d been missing. He’d never thought of kissing John before that day on the roof. He’d never thought of lying next to him in bed simply to hear him breathe. He never thought about curling his fingers in John’s jumper so he could feel his heartbeat. Not until he was saying goodbye did he realize, did he truly know what he felt for John and then he’d thought it was too late.   
He listens to the water running and feels lucky. Sherlock has hardly ever felt lucky in his life. It was an abstract and not something he concerned himself with. Today though, he feels lucky. Lucky to have John and to know what his smiles mean. To have John’s voice and his warmth and even those appalling jumpers in his life. Sherlock feels lucky because he is.   
He loves John Watson and maybe he always has. With a smile he fears might break his face; he snatches his phone to call Lestrade. 

John is humming when he returns to the room and he nearly laughs when he sees Sherlock. With his odd hair spouting free from his head on one side and beginning to grow on the other, he looks like a madman as he shouts into the phone. John hasn’t seen hide or hair of David since the day before and guesses the man has a strong survival instinct if he’s staying away from Sherlock right now.  
“No! The goat! Lestrade, the goat killed him.”  
“Sherlock,” John says from the doorway, “Sherlock, tell me how it happened. Quietly.”  
Sherlock nearly slams the phone onto the table and looks at John. “I told you last night.”  
“I was asleep. Tell me now. Put it on speaker phone and tell me like you usually do how this happened.”   
“You could sleep through anything,” Sherlock says defensively.  
“Sherlock,” John sighs.   
There’s a pause while Sherlock takes in John’s form in the doorway. John waits. Finally, he hits the speaker phone and sits on the bed like a child in a snit. John feels a burst of affection as he sits beside Sherlock.   
“Fine. The man wasn’t killed by the tractor. It just happened to run him over after. The goat, just think about it. Agricultural fair. People in that field of work rely heavily on good breeding and strong animals as well as good crops. Our victim was no different. Winning the livestock competition meant recognition and better sales for the year. His goat wins. Temperamental creature, you could tell from the pace marks on the ground. When it wins, he pins the ribbon on the goat. A creature like that, not accepting of much human contact, would lash out. It kicked him in the head as you know. It’s only a matter of time from there. Dirty boots, he was in the mud for a while but it was dry when he was hit, so he had been away from the animal for a time. That gives your suspect time to sneak in and steal the ribbon. A pedigree animal like his own is only as good as the judging deems. He needs that ribbon; he says so in his interview. His farm is failing, without a solid win on at least one account he’ll go under. His crops were only alright and his animals underfed from the bad year. If he took the ribbon, he could prove, falsely of course, to those around him that his animals were worth something and hopefully keep his livelihood. It was a simple accident that placed the victim under the wheels of that tractor and that it was your suspect driving.”  
Sherlock grins smugly. John shakes his head in his usual awe at Sherlock’s ability to see everything from one moment’s evaluation but Lestrade has questions.  
“Why was he under the tractor if not because someone put him there? How did the kick kill him?”  
“It’s obvious. A kick to the head in just the right spot can make anyone a ticking time bomb. His goat kicks him and he goes about the rest of his day like normal until it comes to this…event,” Sherlock says.  
“The tractor showing,” John nods.  
“Yes. Antiques that have been kept running or remade. From what the interviews say, this was the most anticipated part of the fair so it’s obvious why the victim was there. He didn’t have his own machine but he did want to watch. At that point, his injury must have become too much for his brain. He might have been dizzy before that but it was a busy day and the report says he hadn’t eaten, he might have believed it was lack of food that made him uncomfortable. He simply fell beneath the wheels of the machine as it was backing up. He was dead by the time his spine snapped. I’m sure if you take another look, you’ll see I’m right.”   
Lestrade is silent for a minute. “So his goat killed him and the ambitious farmer just happens to run him over?”  
“Sounds right,” John answers.  
John can picture Lestrade rubbing his hand through his hair, sucking down coffee and frowning.   
“Jesus so now I have to let this git go. I won’t ever hear the end of this.”  
“Cold cases!” Sherlock barks before Lestrade can hang up.  
“Right, right. Come down whenever you’re ready. Preferably not today. This is going to be a shit storm.”  
Lestrade hangs up without a goodbye.   
“What happened to the blue ribbon?” John asks. Sherlock turns and begins to stand, his legs shaking somewhat.  
“Oh, I suspect it’s on another animal proving its pedigree.” 

Sherlock wobbles and John is beside him in a moment. He holds his arm and watches with worry until Sherlock lowers himself back to the bed with a frustrated sigh.  
“Hey, it’s alright. We’ll get through this. We’ve gotten through the worst of it, haven’t we?”   
“It’s not enough,” Sherlock says harshly.  
John sighs. “It’ll get easier.”  
“Will it?”  
Sherlock pushes himself up and manages to stay on his feet. He doesn’t look back as he walks away. It isn’t easy and he wishes he could remember when it was simple to put one foot in front of the other. He doesn’t want John to see him like this. To remember him in this state. It gets easier as he moves but he still feels slow in his own body. He makes it to the kitchen only to find Mrs. Hudson having tea with David.  
“Good morning Sherlock, it’s nearly noon! Have you gotten enough rest?” she asks.   
“Good morning Mrs. Hudson, I fear I overslept.”   
“Oh no worries, dear, it’s good to see you up and about. Would you like some tea?”  
She stands and bustles about the kitchen while Sherlock lowers himself into the chair across from David.  
“I’m sorry about yesterday…Roger could be a bit rough,” David says hesitantly.  
Sherlock hears John coming to the kitchen and he smiles a tight, fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say a word and David hastily drinks his tea while diverting his eyes. John has gone to his computer first. He’s checking his email. Sherlock leans across the table.  
“If any of you; you, your friend or the new one my brother will send because he always does, say one more derogatory comment about John I will do far worse than my brother ever can,” Sherlock hisses.   
David’s eyes widen. He’d heard of the odd bond between the two men. He’d heard from a very annoyed Mycroft that John had been willing to die for Sherlock and that Sherlock would do anything to protect John (“it will get them both killed if they aren’t careful”) but he’d never seen Sherlock’s side of that protection. John had been calm and logical in how he’d rid the house of Roger but Sherlock was different. With those bright eyes glaring into his own he had no doubt that Sherlock would destroy anyone who said anything about John and god help the poor sod who tried to hurt the doctor.   
David feels himself soften. “He’s lucky,” he says quietly.  
He revels in Sherlock’s reaction of leaning back in his chair with surprise in his face. It’s not everyday someone surprises the detective and David’s learned in his month in 221B to remember those moments fondly.   
“How so?” Sherlock asks curiously. They both look over at John who is typing slowly, showing no sign of turning. Mrs. Hudson places a cup of tea in front of Sherlock with a motherly smile.  
“I’ll be in my flat if you need me,” she says before bustling off.   
David waits until Mrs. Hudson was gone and it was obvious John wasn’t going to come into the kitchen for a while.   
“He’s lucky someone is willing to protect him. You’re lucky too; he’d do anything for you. He punched me in the face to get me away from you,” David shrugs.   
“What did you think you’d get when you came here? My brother likes to force people into things, but you aren’t one of them. What did you think I could give you?” Sherlock asks.   
David leans back, shrugs. He’s more comfortable with this conversation; the threat means nothing to him. Sherlock takes this in and nods. David has no interest in going after John in any capacity. Sherlock relaxes. Waits.  
“I’ve followed your cases. I’ve worked for your brother for some time and it’s nearly impossible not to hear about his insufferable little brother. I looked you up and I just find you fascinating.”  
Sherlock pulls back with a frown. “I’m not-“  
“Oh no, not like that. Just the way you solve cases. I admit, I’m a bit of a crime junkie. I guess I just hoped I could learn from you. I’m nothing more than a doctor, but Mr. Watson proved it’s possible to change occupations. I think I just wanted to…study with you.”  
John has moved over to the table without them noticing. Sherlock flinches for a moment when John’s hand touches his back along the chair but he relaxes quickly.  
“Study with Sherlock? Good luck with that. His mind is a bag of cats. You just have to hold on for the ride,” he says this with an easy affection giving the cutting words warmth that comes from companionship.   
John smiles as he busies himself in the kitchen. “Did Sherlock’s threat scare you?” he asks as he sits with a cup of tea and two biscuits. Both men look surprised.   
“You think I can’t hear you just because I’m across the room?” John asks pleasantly.  
Sherlock feels the warmth in his face and he pushes himself to his feet. Both men sit up straighter, watching. Sherlock stays on his feet. He turns away and stalks into the room only half aware that he isn’t uncomfortable in his own body. He’s embarrassed. He hasn’t been embarrassed in years. He doesn’t like it.   
John eats his biscuits and drinks his tea in the quiet wake he’s left. David looks nervous once more but John only smiles.  
“It’s alright,” they hear Sherlock throw something. David winces but John simply talks louder, “I’m used to being talked about like I’m not there. And talked to when I’m not there for that matter. I wouldn’t count on being able to study with Sherlock. It’s more a lesson on restraint just being next to him. If you want to learn something, I can put you in contact with an Inspector who would be highly exasperated, but willing to give you some information. I’m afraid I’m not a rule but rather an exception to one. I’m afraid I can’t give you any insight into what I do. It’s kind of…unique”  
Sherlock comes back in his dressing gown looking agitated.  
“I need another case,” he snaps.  
It doesn’t get passed the two men that he’s moving normally, though he does favor his right leg. Neither of them mentions it. John sips his tea before answering.  
“You just solved one this morning. You can have the cold cases tomorrow if you relax today and do what we tell you. You need to rest.”   
“I’m fine,” he snaps back.  
David wants to shrink back from the fury of Sherlock Holmes but John only rolls his eyes.   
“Yes, for now but you heard Lestrade. He’s dealing with a media storm today thanks to your brilliance. I’m afraid the only way you’re going out is if you do the shopping with me.”   
“I solved the case,” Sherlock says irritably.   
“And bravo but now they have to handle it. Unless you want your picture taken, then by all means let’s head down.”  
David is still in awe of how easily John handles being with Sherlock. David had known the detective by blog posts and stories but nothing could’ve prepared him for the truth. Even when hurt, Sherlock was a handful. He didn’t want to do his therapy, hated when he lost the words he was looking for and resented David for reasons David couldn’t fathom, though he believed it might have stemmed from his employment to Mycroft. He takes in the scene in front of him and sips his tea.   
Sherlock collapses into the chair beside John and lays his arm across the table, wiggling his fingers. He groans.  
“I would have to wear the hat,” he grumbles.  
John grins to himself. “Yes, you probably would. Donavan hasn’t forgiven you for making her look like an idiot in front of all of Scotland Yard.”  
Sherlock rolls his head so he’s looking at John. He studiously ignores David. “She believed lies. It is not my fault.”  
“Well she thinks it is. She kept telling me whenever I’d go to see Greg.”   
“Stupid,” Sherlock spits.  
John stands. “We’re out of milk. Do you want to come with me, or not?”  
Sherlock seems torn. David grins. “We can work on your therapy and I can call your brother.”  
Sherlock grimaces and jumps up. “I’ll get changed.”  
David and John grin at each other. “Thanks. You’re learning,” John says with a nod.   
“Eh, I’m selfish. If you’re out, I can have a day in to watch telly. With Roger gone I can watch crap with a cuppa without getting any flack.”  
John laughs.  
“I am sorry about Roger,” David says as he drains his cup.   
“Can’t blame other people for their stupidity. Unless you’re Sherlock,” John squints out the window.   
“It’s alright, you know. You don’t need to hide it,” David says.  
“Hide what?” John turns.   
“Your relationship. Anyone with eyes can see it. I’m pretty sure even a blind man would be able to tell. I can’t tell if you’re both blind to it or just hiding it.”  
John doesn’t answer. From the bedroom they hear Sherlock tossing things from the closet.   
“I’m not gay,” John says carefully.  
“No, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t in love either,” David says with a gleam in his eye.  
“You’re a lot more observant than he gives you credit for,” John finally says.  
“Yeah, well,” David grins.  
They hear Sherlock coming down the hall and John tips his cup at David before placing it on the table.   
“I couldn’t decide on pants,” Sherlock says as he strides into the room. He doesn’t have the cane.  
“No cane?” John asks.  
“No need,” Sherlock says, “I’m moving just fine as you can see and this is going to be very dull so I have no need to worry.”   
“Right. Come on then.”   
John rolls his eyes as Sherlock bounces. Today he is at his best and he knows it. With a gleam in his eye, Sherlock goes down the stairs first. John follows and before they even hit the landing, David can hear them bickering. The door swings shut and finally, it’s quiet.   
In the silence of 221B, David drags the TV to the living room. Crashing on the couch, he settles in. In the home of Sherlock Holmes, quiet is something to cherish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've embraced David in this chapter so we'll probably see some more of him. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta readers for helping me fix up the case and for catching so appalling mistakes.


	16. Chapter 16: Giving Up Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you ashamed of me, John?” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about all the gooey romance stuff! It's so much fun to write though. As always, thank you for reading on and for all the lovely comments on each chapter. It's nice knowing people are enjoying this.

“Sherlock, for the last time, we don’t need 20 tubs of butter!” John is very close to shouting in his exasperation. He lowers his voice when a mother drags her two children by with a worried glance.  
“We don’t even need one. We have butter,” he says.  
Sherlock isn’t listening. Sherlock is like a child when they go shopping. He picks up everything, studies boxes with bright colors and tosses things they don’t need into the basket before moving on. His complete lack of sense matches with his ignorance about money and John is frustrated by it. The only good thing about the day is Sherlock’s movements. He looks even more like a madman than normal with his hair and the bruising on his face, but he walks fairly quickly and without a limp. John could forgive the people who pushed past Sherlock like he might be crazy since he’s fairly certain he would be one of them if his life had ended up different. He pushes down his annoyance and begins to put the butter back one by one. Sherlock’s hand shot out and caught his wrist.   
“Experiment, John, experiment!” he snaps.  
“We don’t need the butter! And frankly, you’re scaring people. The quicker we get home the better.”  
Sherlock stills.   
“Are you ashamed of me, John?” he asks.   
To John, it seems as if the world has stopped. The movements of the people around them doesn’t matter. He blinks up at Sherlock.  
“No.” he says clearly.   
Sherlock stares down at John, his eyes flickering over John’s features. John doesn’t move. He knows Sherlock is cataloguing everything in his face. He waits until Sherlock jerks his head.   
“10 tubs,” he says abruptly.  
“What?” John says with a frown.  
“10 tubs of butter. Not 20. 10.”  
Sherlock was bargaining. John is slightly amused by the turn of events and smiles. “And what do I get for allowing this?” he asks.  
Sherlock looks around a bit wild eyes and John worries he’s going to offer to buy John some obscenely expensive food until Sherlock leans in close. His hand is still on John’s wrist and suddenly, his face is very close to John’s. His eyes hold a question and John isn’t sure if his answer, but they must because Sherlock kisses him.  
They’re standing in the middle of the store holding on to a basket of butter and Sherlock Holmes is kissing him. John finds the moment to be surreal. If he’d had a picture of what he thought his life would be when he came home from the war, it would’ve been something like a flat of his own, a steady girlfriend and a job he enjoyed. He might have been a doctor or he might have worked in the writing business but never had he dreamed he’d be standing in a Tesco with a tall, brilliant and somewhat crazy detective with 10 tubs of butter in his basket and the taste of the man’s morning tea on his lips.   
When Sherlock pulls back John can’t stop staring. Sherlock grins shyly. It’s the same grin he gave John the first day they met. The day John handed his life over to Sherlock without knowing it and the day Sherlock let him in. John smiles in return.   
“Fine. 10. But 10 only and don’t buy that expensive stuff. I don’t want to owe Mycroft more than we already do. Do you want any more jam?” he turns back to the shelves and though he feels people looking at them, mothers, children and the lonely men with their single baskets of frozen dinners, he doesn’t stop smiling. When Sherlock’s hand slides into the basket once more, John catches it, squeezes and lets go.   
He feels Sherlock’s smile more than he sees it.   
Sherlock is happy. Not happy like he’s used to being happy. It’s a new kind of happy. He’s used to the joy of the chase. The excitement of a new case where his brain can whirl and run and find out new things. He’s not used to the happiness of standing beside someone and simply knowing they want to be there. He can’t help but enjoy it. He wants to tell everyone who passes them that John is his.   
He’s grown used to John. Quiet, ready to help out and constantly annoyed but in a way that isn’t annoying. He never thought he would stand next to someone and want to take their hand, want to kiss them until they smiled. He never thought he’d hear the words “I love you” aimed at him. He grins as he thinks about it. John had leaned over him. Had stared into his eyes and said the words and only this morning he’d professed he needed Sherlock. If Sherlock didn’t look like a madman before, he does now, grinning nearly ear to ear. He helps John put back the rest of the butter (“maybe 15?” “No!”) and together they make their way home.   
David is watching telly with his feet tucked under him on the couch when John and Sherlock come back in. They don’t see him.  
“I can’t believe you think you need 10 tubs of butter,” John says, backing into the kitchen while watching Sherlock.   
“I could have used the 20,” Sherlock sulks.  
“No. No you couldn’t have. Where would we have kept all of that?” John is nearly laughing.   
“The fridge of course!”  
“You nutter,” John says with affection.   
David can see them as they unload food onto the table and so of course he sees Sherlock shoulder John. Of course he sees John smile up at Sherlock. And he isn’t very surprised when John reaches up, catches the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss.   
He’d meant it when he’d told John that it was easy to see. He wasn’t sure if John had known then that he loved Sherlock but anyone who spent any time with the two men could see it. It was more than friendship, it was a soul mate. David feels a twinge of loneliness as he watches Sherlock wrap his long arm around John’s back and cup the back of the other man’s head. They kiss the same way they interact; like there’s no one else on the planet, only them. John is leaning back and Sherlock is holding him tight. John’s hand is on Sherlock’s cheek. It isn’t an invasive kiss from what David sees. It’s lazy and lovely and David looks away. He turns up the telly.

John is lost in Sherlock. He hadn’t meant for the kiss to become this. He had simply reached for Sherlock out of affection. Leaning back, he feels Sherlock’s arm around him and the other hand in his hair. The kiss turns into something more. It says more than their words can. John marvels at the word love as Sherlock gently pushes his lips open. He doesn’t know if Sherlock has kissed anyone before. When he’s kissing Sherlock, he doesn’t even know if he truly has. It’s never felt like this. Never felt like they simply fit. There isn’t anything to think about, no worries of hands or tongue, it just happens. He grips the back of Sherlock’s neck and places a hand on his cheek. They are the only people in the world in this moment. John is content.

It isn’t until the telly gets louder that Sherlock realizes what’s happening. John kissed him and now, Sherlock is kissing John in return. They’re in their flat and only moments ago they were arguing over butter. Sherlock can taste toothpaste in John’s mouth. He doesn’t want to pull away. He doesn’t want to be anywhere without John ever again. How had he never noticed this before? How had he scorned touch when it could feel like this? He pulls away when the telly gets louder but he doesn’t regret the taste of John on his lips. 

John blushes before turning to David. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t realize you were here.”  
“No problem. I’ll go upstairs. Carl went out a few minutes ago. Reporting to Mycroft I presume. It will probably take a while,” David rises.  
John nods as he absently runs a finger over his lips. David moves to leave but stops.  
“I’ll go upstairs if you, Sherlock, promise me one thing.”  
Sherlock lifts his head. David can’t help but smile at the somewhat dazed look in Sherlock’s eyes.  
“You’ll do your therapy with me tonight without complaint.”  
Sherlock begins to sputter. “I am fine,” he tugs his coat around him and lifts his chin, “I’m walking just fine.”  
David rolls his eyes and John grins. David feels he and John have come to an understanding. Maybe after all of this they’ll go out for a pint. “Yes, and if you want to continue walking just fine, you need to do your therapy. I could bring back Dr. Moore if that would convince you.”  
Sherlock’s lips curl and David laughs. “I didn’t think so.”  
Sherlock seems to think then he nods slowly. “Fine. Tonight I will do the therapy.”  
“Without complaint,” John adds.   
Sherlock levels his eyes at John who only stares back. “Fine,” he says curtly.  
David laughs. “Good. I’m off, then.” And with that, he hops up the stairs.   
Sherlock snorts as John begins to put the groceries away. He’s shaking his head and muttering about butter when Sherlock feels his leg go out. He crashes to the floor.   
John is at his side in the blink of an eye.  
“Are you alright?”  
“Perfectly fine. I do believe I need to sit down,” Sherlock says.  
“Come on, we’ll get you lying down.”  
“I’m sick of lying down,” Sherlock snaps.  
“I’ll be right there with you. Come on,” John heaves Sherlock up and they struggle to the bedroom.  
John hadn’t made the bed that morning and Sherlock falls onto a mess of sheets. He manages to pull both legs onto the bed without help and looks triumphant for a moment before realizing it shouldn’t be hard to begin with. John climbs into his side of the bed and looks over at Sherlock.  
Sherlock is frowning at his legs and seems to be lost in thought. John lets his head lean back against the headboard and waits. He knows it could be some time before Sherlock voices his thoughts.   
“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock says abruptly.   
John opens one eye. “Where did that come from?”  
“No doubt you’re wondering about our future. What comes next,” Sherlock says.  
“Well yes, but where did that come from?” John asks again.  
“Mycroft assumes that because I have no need for it I’m alarmed by it.”  
“Everything else is transport,” John says, remembering a past conversation.   
Sherlock inclines his head. “Precisely. It doesn’t alarm me. It simply hasn’t crossed my mind much. Not necessary.”  
“Sherlock, why are we talking about this?” John asks.  
Sherlock looks over at John. He’s rubbing his forehead like he does when he’s lost. Sherlock sighs.   
“Because you enjoy sex. You seek it out. We aren’t ignoring our conversation from yesterday, that was made clear today. We need to discuss this. If you still wish to only be with women, that’s alright. It simply needs to be established.”  
John looks over at Sherlock with shock in his face. “You think I’d tell you I love you, kiss you, and then go for a shag somewhere else?”   
“Transport,” Sherlock says.  
John shifts so he’s facing Sherlock. He looks into the bright intelligent eyes and can’t help but laugh.  
“You’re an idiot,” he says.  
Sherlock looks offended.   
“If you don’t want sex, we won’t have it but I’m not going to go find it somewhere else.”  
Sherlock studies John. He knows John likes women. Knows he isn’t strictly gay. Sherlock isn’t strictly anything so this is new for him as well. The difference is, he knows nothing. Oh he’s kissed people before but it was always to get something. It was for his own gain. Kissing John wasn’t for any other reason than he simply wanted to. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever want to have sex with John. He doesn’t know what it feels like to want to. Irene had asked and he’d faked misunderstanding. He hadn’t wanted her like that. She’d been intriguing. Something new. Something interesting. Something beautiful in her own way. Something dangerous. Sex was too obvious for Irene. No, with her the game had been her joy. Her intimacy came from knowledge. Sex was too common. She’d toyed with him but it had been for the sake of the game. He doesn’t want to play with John.   
“I don’t know,” he says carefully.   
John leans in so Sherlock can feel him breathing. “Look, we don’t need to decide this now. I know it must be hard for you. Sex is messy and…a loss of control. I’m not asking you to give up who you are for me. I’d have to be crazy to want that from you. If I wanted normal I’d be with one of the women I dated before. I don’t. I want to be with you. Now stop worrying.”  
“Messy?” Sherlock barks out with a laugh.  
“Yes, it’s messy. I just figured…” John trails off as Sherlock begins to laugh.  
“I’ve ridden the tube covered in blood. I’ve exploded organs in the microwave. I’ve even stuck my fingers into a human brain and you think I care about messy?”   
John is somewhat stunned. “Well, I just assumed.”  
Sherlock reaches up and trails a finger along John’s cheek. “And you think I’m the idiot,” he murmurs.   
“I don’t know what it feels like to want sex, that’s all. I’m telling you it’s possible I won’t ever want it. It’s not because it’s messy. It’s not even about lack of control. I can give up control,” John snorts and Sherlock frowns, “I can if I need to. No, it’s just that I don’t know how to want to.”  
John pauses and thinks for a moment. “Alright. How about this. Don’t think about how. Just let your body tell you. If it never happens, it never happens and we’ll go from there. We really don’t need to decide these things today.”  
Sherlock feels something swell in his chest. “John…I…” he begins and feels his breath cut out.  
John looks worried but Sherlock only holds up his hand. Breathes deeply. “John, I love you,” he says quickly.  
A smile blossoms on his face after he says it and he relaxes. John smiles.   
“Kiss me,” John says.  
“What?” Sherlock asks. He wants to, but the words make him pause.  
“You say you can give up control. Kiss me. Do as I say. I want to test this possibility,” John grins.  
Sherlock can’t say no to John when he smiles like that. Can’t say no to the blue eyes that crinkle at the edges. He can’t say no when John is smiling just for him. He pushes himself up and kisses John. John hums his approval and Sherlock moves his mouth against John’s.  
It’s a slow kiss, a getting to know you kiss. When Sherlock lifts his hands John breaks away.  
“Do only what I tell you,” he says with a small laugh. Sherlock makes an impatient noise.  
“Kiss me. No hands,” John says.  
Sherlock pouts, but he complies. He feels John smile against his mouth and he can’t help but smile back.   
It feels like an eternity of their mouths moving together before John’s tongue touches his lips. He’s not asking for entrance, he’s telling. Sherlock opens his mouth and their tongues meet. The shock of it makes Sherlock sit up straighter. Kissing was never like this before. He meets John in the middle, their tongue’s tangling. John laughs breathlessly against Sherlock and Sherlock smiles.   
“Only what I tell you,” John says against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opens his eyes for a moment. John is watching him. It should be awkward but it isn’t. Sherlock brings his arms up slowly and hugs John. John releases Sherlock’s mouth to bury his head in Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s half sitting on Sherlock’s lap and Sherlock can feel all of John’s warm body curled against him.   
“I love you,” John says on a half sob. Sherlock lets him hold on. He knows he hurt John. He wishes John would let that anger out so they can move past it. Slowly, John pulls back.  
“I missed you,” John says. There are tears on his cheeks.  
Sherlock wipes away a tear with the pad of his thumb. Slowly he puts his finger in his mouth and sucks the tear away. John’s breath catches in his throat. With a small groan he leans in. Their mouths meet and it isn’t sweet anymore. It’s almost rough. John lifts himself up so he’s above Sherlock, his mouth moving over the detective’s. Sherlock feels his arms tighten around John’s waist as he feels John grasp at the back of his shirt. He lets one hand stray to the belt loops on John’s pants. Gripping tightly, he pulls John even closer to him.  
Their mouths have become one it seems. Tongues tangling and breath mingling harshly. With each touch of their tongues Sherlock gives John an apology and the anguish he’d felt having to leave and with each slide of their lips, John gives Sherlock his desperation and his hopeless love. They pour everything into each other until their breathless and gasping but still they don’t pull away.   
Someone clears their throat from the doorway. John pulls away first. His hand has slid into Sherlock’s shirt just at his throat so his fingers rest on a pulse point. Sherlock has a hold on John’s belt as well as clutched in his jumper. John lets out a breath. Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide as he looks up. John is straddling Sherlock and he slowly lowers himself so he’s sitting on Sherlock’s knees.  
“Mycroft,” John greets without looking at the elder Holme’s brother.   
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”  
He doesn’t sound sorry and John rubs his hand through his hair.   
“What do you want?” Sherlock snaps. His hands haven’t left John’s waist.  
“I came by to tell you that Roger will no longer be in my service and that I give you my deepest apologies for his rudeness. Dr. Moore wishes to set up an appointment to go over your progress. I told him tomorrow should work fine,” Mycroft lifts his eyebrows as Sherlock glowers.   
“I’m busy,” Sherlock says.  
“Sherlock, you have to see the doctor,” John sighs with a small smile. He hasn’t moved from Sherlock’s lap. Mycroft can’t tell if it’s because Sherlock is holding him too tightly or if he just doesn’t care to move.   
“Not tomorrow I don’t. We have plans,” Sherlock snaps.  
“Fine,” Mycroft concedes, “the next day then. You can’t put this off.”   
“Fine,” Sherlock replies, “now will you get out of my room? Actually, get out of my flat.”   
Mycroft inclines his head. “Once again I’m sorry to have…interrupted.”   
Sherlock snorts.   
“Good day,” Mycroft says as he makes his way out the door.   
They sit together in silence until they hear the front door close, then John leans forward with a laugh. He rests his head on Sherlock’s until they are both giggling. Sherlock hugs John to him tightly.   
“We’ll figure this out,” John says.   
He kisses Sherlock gently but doesn’t pull away. The kiss turns into more rather quickly. John pulls back once more after leisurely tasting the inside of Sherlock’s mouth.  
“See? At least we know that works,” he laughs with his eyes closed.   
Sherlock holds tight to his John. He’s content and for once, there isn’t anything in the world that could make him move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's time for a rating....don't you?


	17. Chapter 17: Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now I’m just jealous,” David sounds amused.   
> Sherlock turns. “Why?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like it's all good....but we'll see. ;) It can't be perfect the whole time, can it? This is turning into something bigger than I meant it to be. 
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments, I love getting them so please keep them coming! 
> 
> Disclaimer: The stretches might not be something you'd do for coming out of a coma, but hey, I'm trying.

“This. Is. Ridiculous.”  
“Sherlock, you promised.”  
Sherlock is walking slowly across the flat with his arms straight out and a bored look on his face. “Well my balance is fine!” he snaps.  
David snorts. “You nearly knocked over the coffee table. I know you’re in a rush to be rid of me, but I have to do my job. Which includes making sure you actually are okay. You know you could always revert back to before.”  
“The bullet is gone, I’m healed and I can walk. I’ll take my chances.”  
“Yes, well that’s why we need David,” John laughs.   
Sherlock continues his walk until he’s in front of John. He leans in until their noses are nearly touching. “Take that back,” he says dangerously.  
“Sherlock,” John sighs.  
“Take it back,” Sherlock says once more. His eyes are darkening and suddenly, John is breathing deeper.  
“Make me,” he says without thinking. Sherlock smirks. He begins to lean in closer.  
“Um, boys, I’m right here and while I really don’t mind if you get it on every damn day, I’d bloody well not like to see it,” David says, breaking the spell.   
Sherlock pushes off the chair with mild surprise in his face and John goes back to his paper.   
“Right then. Sit down on the floor. We need to do some stretches.”  
Sherlock begins to open his mouth but without looking up John says, “Promises, Sherlock. We’ve talked about this.”  
His mouth snaps shut. David laughs.   
“Where’s that other one?” Sherlock asks in the quiet.   
“Don’t know. He went out. Thought he was meeting Mycroft, but it’s been a rather long time, hasn’t it?”   
“No, Mycroft was here earlier. He couldn’t have been with that other one.” Sherlock shakes his head.  
“Well, I’m not his keeper. He probably just went out for a pint.”   
“Are you going out tonight?” Sherlock asks.   
“Wasn’t planning on it. Night in with the telly for me,” David says cheerfully.   
He helps Sherlock to put his feet together so his legs splay out into a butterfly position. John laughs from his chair watching the gangly man push on his knees and wince at the stretch. They sit in the silence for a bit longer until Sherlock says,  
“Do you know what love is?”  
“Sherlock!” John says sharply but David laughs him off.  
“It’s alright. This is probably the best conversation we’ve ever had. I’m not complaining. Yeah, I know what it is. I know what it is for me, at least.”   
Sherlock leans across his legs to David. “How did you know?”  
“Sherlock, what is this?” John asks.  
“I’m thinking,” Sherlock says.   
“About what?” John strains.  
“About myself. Obviously.”  
David seems to be thinking. “I think I knew the first time when I smelled her perfume. We were at uni together, her name was Amelia. She worse this perfume that she mixed herself and it was nearly intoxicating. One day we were eating lunch and I looked up and smelled her perfume and boom, I knew it. I loved her. She wasn’t stunning. She had gaps in her teeth and she walked with a slight limp but she was perfect to me. I guess that’s what love is,” David shrugs.  
Sherlock sneaks a look at John. He opens his mouth. His phone rings. Lestrade.  
“Hey it’s me. Just wanted to thank you for your help on that case. Closed it, dealt with the media and now everything’s settled. You can stop by tomorrow for those cold cases. Three hours? Isn’t that what John said?”  
Sherlock looks up at John. He doesn’t know when John talked to Lestrade but John smiles like he knows what the call is about. “Yes, three hours is satisfactory.”   
“Good. Give me a ring when you’re along. Thanks again,” Lestrade hangs up after the gruff thanks and Sherlock bounces to his feet.  
“Yes!”  
John smirks. “Will you behave now?”   
Sherlock bounces around until his right leg twitches and he stumbles. He’s still grinning like a maniac when David helps him to sit down and he grins. “Cold cases. So much fun. So little evidence.”   
“I’m off to bed,” John says suddenly. He yawns widely.   
“It’s only 6,” Sherlock says with a frown.  
“And I am exhausted. I’ll probably read for a bit. There’s that book I’ve been meaning to read but I haven’t had much time. You behave for David. He’ll tell me if you don’t,” John levels his gaze at Sherlock who smiles in return.   
John gets up and yawns once more. He pats Sherlock on the head on his way to bed and they hear him shuffle into the bathroom. Sherlock is smiling before he realizes.  
“Now I’m just jealous,” David sounds amused.   
Sherlock turns. “Why?”  
“You seriously don’t get it, do you?” he laughs.  
“Get what?”  
David shakes his head. “You see everything but what’s right in front of you. That type of love, and don’t tell me it’s not love, is unique. It’s special. The first girl I loved was Amelia, but she wasn’t my future love. Not many people ever meet their soul mate. I’m jealous of you two.”  
“It wasn’t always like that,” Sherlock says defensively.   
“Yeah it was, you just didn’t notice. Always takes the worst to make you realize the best. Life screws with you that way,” David leans back against the couch and stretches his legs absently.   
“Why did my brother hire you? You aren’t his type of employee,” Sherlock looks David over with a critical eye.  
“You’re an only child. School in America. Doted on. Notions of love and attachment. Loyalty but not to the kinds of things Mycroft wants. Why would he hire someone like you?”  
“Maybe because I’m good at my job. Usually, people like me,” David says.  
“John likes you.”  
David laughs and Sherlock is surprised. He’d injected enough venom into the words to make anyone angry.  
“You don’t need to make that sound like a death sentence. It’s not like he wants me. He isn’t gay, you know. And neither am I, if that matters,” David says with a grin.   
Sherlock looks offended and David pulls the man’s legs out. “At least stretch while you yell at me.”  
Sherlock stretches while he glares. Finally, he snaps, “I’m not gay either.”  
“I never said you were. Why are you both so bothered by labels?”   
“I’m not.”  
David looks Sherlock over before he smiles. “Oh. I see. You don’t like that John cares about labels.”  
Sherlock’s frown deepens.   
“Lighten up. He doesn’t care about labels with you. It’s actually rather hard to break a lifetime of restrictions on a few days. You can’t expect it to change that quickly. And hey, you two almost ended up on the floor with me right here, so I’d say it’s changing pretty quickly.”  
Sherlock glares quietly at David as he stretches. David has learned that a quiet glare means Sherlock knows he’s been beaten. He grins happily.   
“Well, I think you’re all good for tonight. I think I’ll go upstairs. Watch telly. Have a cuppa. Just don’t overthink it.”  
He pats Sherlock on the shoulder while Sherlock gives him a stormy glare.   
“Oh, and your brother hired me because I reminded him of you. At least, that’s what he said when he gave me the job. He didn’t seem too happy about it, but then again, you never know with the Holmes brothers, do you?”  
David gives Sherlock a sunny smile before bounding up the stairs. Sherlock is left to think alone.

He makes it to the bedroom without help and is very nearly proud of himself for it when he walks into the room. John is sitting on the bed staring out the window. He has a book in his lap but he seems to have abandoned it. He doesn’t look when Sherlock closes the door.  
“You know, I was so angry with you when Mycroft called. I was terrified for you. It wasn’t fair.”  
Sherlock stares. He isn’t sure he’s ready to have this conversation but it’s clear John is. He sits on the bed with a sigh.  
“I had to.”  
“I know. Mycroft told me. A few times, actually. And I forgive you, I do but it’s really hard to not be angry. I love you. I’m in love with you. I don’t know if I was before. I’m really not sure but I know I did love you. You were my best friend. You saved my life. I just…I don’t know what to say.”   
“What do you need me to do? To say?” Sherlock asks.  
He’s strained, vulnerable. John looks over with sadness. “I don’t know.”  
Sherlock starts to get up. John catches his arm. “No. I’m not…don’t go. This isn’t changing anything. We just need to talk about it.”   
“I don’t know if I can,” Sherlock looks at his lap.   
“You can tell me what happened.”  
John places his hand over Sherlock’s. It’s warm and heavy and comforting.   
“Not yet. I don’t want…I don’t want to think about it yet.”  
John sits still for a moment before turning. “Okay. We’re going to try something. When I came home for the first time my therapist gave me this way of getting my feelings out without saying anything. She had me hit a pillow over and over while I put all of my rage into it. It works rather well. I was surprised. I want to try something like it.”  
“How? I don’t think hitting a pillow will help me,” Sherlock says.  
“No, but if you kiss me it might.”  
Sherlock pulls back.  
“No, just listen. You kiss me. You pour everything into it. You don’t have to say a word. I’ll feel it. It might help you a bit. I know it will help me. Just try it,” John says.  
Sherlock studies John’s face. He doesn’t know how to give emotions and he has no doubt that giving what is in him to John would hurt him more but it’s clear John wants this. He nods.  
“Just…don’t…hate me,” Sherlock strains.   
John cups Sherlock’s face and smiles. It’s somewhat sad, but it’s a smile just for Sherlock and he can’t help but respond.  
“I can’t ever hate you,” he says as he leans in.

At first it’s odd. It’s lips touching but not connecting. Sherlock almost sighs. Then it changes. John tips his head and Sherlock can feel the sadness. John’s lips taste of melancholy and Sherlock taps into the things he doesn’t want to remember. He thinks of falling while John watches. He thinks of walking away. When his tongue meets John’s he gives him fear. He gives him loneliness. He feels the tears on his cheeks but he doesn’t know who they’re coming from. It almost doesn’t matter. They move together, their mouths pulling apart then sliding back together. It’s a give and take. Sadness and hope and old fears. When Sherlock feels himself grow tired he slides away. Lying back against the headboard he pants out a breath.  
John wipes the tears from his face and sits back. He seems stunned.   
“Well…” he trails.  
“That worked,” Sherlock finishes.  
“I’d say so.”  
They sit in silence.   
“I’m sorry,” John says finally. Sherlock looks at him in mild shock.  
“For what?”  
“For letting you go through that alone. I should have found you. I tried but I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”  
Sherlock feels something surge in his chest and move lower. He ignores it. Pulls John close to him and nuzzles into his neck. John sighs heavily.   
“You don’t ever need to be sorry. I’m sorry I left you,” he says into John’s hair.  
They lie in silence and both marvel at how things have changed. John chuckles after some time has passed.  
“If you told me a year ago I’d be here, in bed with you, I’d say you’re crazy,” he says.  
“I would give you the improbability,” Sherlock laughs.   
“Nothings really changed, has it?” John asks on a laugh. He lies back in the bed with a yawn. Sherlock leans over him.  
“I’m pretty sure this has changed. I would have remembered this,” Sherlock says, rubbing his nose along John’s cheek. John laughs.  
“I know. I just mean…we’re the same. I’ve never felt more satisfied by a punch before,” he laughs.  
It takes a second for it to sink in and when it does they both laugh. Sherlock leans on John and they laugh like they used to. Until they’re both breathless. When John relaxes and opens his eyes, Sherlock is looking down at him. His brilliant eyes are bright with tears of laughter and John feels a stab of pure contentedness. He runs his fingers through Sherlock’s odd hair and watches Sherlock close his eyes with a small smile. He pulls Sherlock down and kisses his forehead.   
“John?” Sherlock’s voice is muffled in John’s shoulder.   
“Yes?”   
“I think I know what it feels like to want it,” he says.   
John feels the breath go out of his body but Sherlock doesn’t move. His head is a mess of curls lying against John and John blows out his breath before saying,  
“Alright then.” As it sinks in, he feels a slow grin spread across his face. Things are definitely looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now 109 pages in a Word document. Thank you so much for all of the encouragement. Thanks again to my betas who do an awesome job of catching my stupid mistakes and patting me on the back enough to keep me going.


	18. Chapter 18: All's Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He walks slowly out of the kitchen turning only once to say, “You’ll regret this, you know you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some angst. I think we're wrapping up in a few chapters.

Sherlock wants to kiss John. He wants to feel John’s skin on his own. He’s not used to these feelings but he begins to push at John’s T-shirt with an impatient growl before John stops him.  
“Sherlock, slow down.”   
Sherlock doesn’t stop pushing at John’s clothes until John catches his hands.  
“Sherlock. We don’t need to rush. Relax.”  
Sherlock pouts and John laughs. “Stop. Relax.”  
Sherlock stills his hands and looks down at John really studying him. His face isn’t perfect but his eyes are smiling and his lips are soft. Sherlock grins back at the amused John and sits back. The rush in his body is gone, instead he feels content.   
“Yes. Right. Sorry.”  
John reaches up and touches Sherlock’s hair with a small smile.  
“Don’t be sorry. We just need to slow down.”  
Sherlock rolls onto his side and looks over at John. “I don’t….know how this works.”  
It’s obviously hard for him to admit it and John smiles. “Yeah, I know. We’ll figure this out together. I’ve never actually been here either.”   
Sherlock looks flustered and John reaches for him.  
“Come here. Let’s try something not so hard.”  
“What?” Sherlock doesn’t relax and John laughs.  
“Don’t worry. I just want you to lie here. It’s called cuddling. I’m sure you must have deleted it.”  
“Git,” Sherlock says but it’s with a grin and he lets John pull him down. John settles his chin on the top of Sherlock’s head and they lie together in the quiet.   
“This is the only way you’ll ever be taller than me,” Sherlock says into the quiet of the room. John squeezes him tightly and Sherlock laughs as the air is pushed out of his lungs. He feels John kiss the top of his head and he smiles to himself.

“I see you two have decided to progress this.” For the second time that day, Mycroft Holmes interrupts their intimate moment.   
Sherlock tips his head up. “What are you doing here again?”   
“I need to speak with you,” he says.   
“Right now? I’m in bed,” Sherlock snaps.  
“It’s early yet. You can always come back.” The sarcasm isn’t missed and Sherlock squints.   
John rolls his eyes. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” He slides from the bed, planting a small kiss on Sherlock’s forehead as he goes. When he’s out of the room Sherlock sits up with his arms crossed. He glares but Mycroft only takes a seat.   
“We need to talk about this,” Mycroft says.   
“About what?”   
“Your….relationship.”  
“And why do we need to discuss that?”  
Mycroft sighs. “You still have enemies, Sherlock. When you were just friends he was used against you. What do you think will happen now? You need to think about this.”  
Sherlock looks at the ceiling. “What do you know about love, Mycroft?”  
“Love? So this is love now? All the more reason to think about it. Moran and Moriarty were only one set of people willing to do anything to take you down. You’re too clever for your own good and you need to prepare for that. Your John Watson…he’s a good man. Does he deserve this life?”  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything and stares into the distance. Mycroft nods and stands.  
“Just think about this. Do you want to be the reason your friends get hurt again?”  
Sherlock doesn’t respond as Mycroft leaves. Only when he’s partly to the kitchen does Mycroft hear something hit the window. He shakes his head.  
“You two done then?” John asks from his seat at the table. He’s reading an old paper and he looks up at Mycroft, unsuspecting.   
“Remember what I said about my brother, Doctor Watson? About his heart?”  
John inclines his head.  
“I fear there might not be room in it after all.”  
John looks surprised and then stands. “I don’t think it’s your business or right to talk about that. Some things aren’t for you to know.”  
Sherlock shuffles in from the bedroom. “No John, he’s right.”   
John jerks. “What?”  
“I’ll let myself out,” Mycroft says. Neither look at him as he leaves. John is staring at Sherlock with his heart in his throat. He can hardly breathe.   
“What do you mean, he’s right?”  
Sherlock drops into a chair across from John and lays his head on his arm. John slams his hand on the table so Sherlock jumps.  
“What do you mean, Sherlock?” he grinds out.   
“It’s too dangerous,” Sherlock says.  
He won’t look at John and instead stares at his fingers.   
“It’s too dangerous? How?”  
“There are always people who want me gone. Who would do anything to hurt me. As if is you’re a risk to have around. It’s too dangerous.”  
“Look at me,” John says quietly. Sherlock doesn’t look up. “Look at me and tell me you don’t love me. Look at me and say that again.”   
Sherlock doesn’t move. “When have I ever walked away from the danger? Hell, I run into more often than I can count. Usually I run into it to get to you.”  
Sherlock wiggles his fingers but doesn’t look up.  
“Sherlock!”   
Sherlock jumps, his eyes meeting John’s. He’s clearly miserable. He clearly doesn’t want to say it.   
“Look at me and tell me to go. Look at me and tell me you don’t want me here.”   
Sherlock’s eyes shift away for a moment as if he’s steeling himself. He looks at John and begins to speak. “I don’t know what love is. I’m not sure what I feel. You need to go. It isn’t safe and I can’t protect you anymore.”  
John knows the words are lies but it doesn’t stop them from stabbing into his gut. He feels cold and he sucks in a deep breath. Closing his eyes and steadies himself. He stands slowly. Sherlock watches him anxiously.   
“I’ll be out tomorrow.”  
He walks slowly out of the kitchen turning only once to say, “You’ll regret this, you know you will.”  
Taking his coat, John leaves. 

Sherlock sits at the table long after Mycroft and John have left. He doesn’t know how to fill the hole in his chest. He knows he’s pushed John away. He knows he had to. John hadn’t fought, not really. He seemed almost resigned to it. Maybe he hadn’t believed it would last. Sherlock truly hadn’t thought it could last and now he knows it can’t. Mycroft was right. Love and caring were an affliction. Moriarty was only one in an entire world of criminals and Sherlock didn’t want to risk the lives of the people he cared about. Many of them weren’t smart enough but some were. Some could beat him. Moriarty had proven that. He wouldn’t lose John to a place he couldn’t go. It was better to know John was safe then to fear for his life. He lays his head on the table and lets the sorrow take him. 

John is shaking. He’s walking the streets of London with no real destination hoping to find answers. He hadn’t fought Sherlock mostly in the hopes that if he walked away, Sherlock would follow. He hadn’t. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t know what he’d do. He stops at a bench and lowers himself down. He loves Sherlock. He loves him hopelessly. He loves the experiments and the violin and even the shouting when Sherlock isn’t understood. He doesn’t know how to live without Sherlock but if Sherlock wants him gone, there’s nothing he can do.   
He leans back on the bench and lets his mind wander. 

He’s in a bubble. Placing his hands on the walls he pushes. Blood seeps from his palms.  
“Ah ah, now, now. Be a good boy. Daddy’s talking now.”  
Moriarty. His skull is showing through his now green skin. His teeth are rotted. He smiles.   
“Oh poor Sherlock. Caring…such a big burden isn’t it?”  
Sherlock is stuck in a bubble. There are nails in the sides. He stands in the center. He doesn’t speak.   
“Put yourself in a shell, did you? Killed me. Killed my life work. Still think you can have it all? John Watson will die. Like all the rest of us,” he giggles.   
Sherlock feels his feet sinking. 

John dreams of the barmaid. She’s dancing on the table, her breasts spilling from her dress. She pulls on his arms but he can’t move. She pouts. Moves on. Sherlock is stuck in the corner, blood dripping from his head. They use him as a dart board. John looks away. The barmaid dances with her bare feet on hot coals. John watches. Someone begins to cry. He wakes to a hand on his shoulder. 

“Sherlock?” David is shaking Sherlock.  
“Sherlock, come on, get up. This isn’t a good place to fall asleep.”   
Sherlock opens his eyes hoping to see John but instead finds David’s face near his. David looks like a kind man. His brown hair is cropped short and his face carries laugh lines. His eyes are nearly black and he looks worried as he leans over Sherlock.  
“Mhph,” Sherlock tries to shove David away.  
“Where’s John? I came down to check on you two but he isn’t here.”  
Sherlock turns his head away. “He’s gone.”  
“Gone? Gone out?” David asks.   
“Gone!” Sherlock shouts “Gone as in gone for good. Gone away. Gone.”  
David pulls out the chair John had been sitting in and Sherlock doesn’t hold in his snarl.   
“Why?” David asks patiently.   
Sherlock shrugs.  
David leans back and waits. Sherlock sneaks a glance up and sees David watching him. He sighs dramatically.   
“Because I sent him away. Why aren’t you out getting drunk? That’s what you usually like to do, isn’t it?”  
David shakes his head. “Doesn’t work. I’ve gotten used to you now. Bark worse than your bite. Why did you send him away?”  
“I had to,” Sherlock’s voice is muffled by his arm as he turns his head. David smacks him on the back of the head. Sherlock jerks up.  
“And why did you have to do that?”  
“Because my life is dangerous. Obviously.”  
“So…you sent away the person who loves you because they could possibly get hurt? Here’s something you should know about relationships. Someone can always get hurt,” Sherlock moves to interrupt but David waves him off, “let me finish. I don’t mean they can get shot at or killed like you mean but someone can always get hurt. It’s a give and take. Did he say he didn’t want you to live like you do? Did he tell you to stop working, to stop putting yourself in those situations?”  
Sherlock shakes his head.   
“So he doesn’t want you to change and he’s willing to run after you into situations he knows could be dangerous. And you sent him away. He’s right, you’re an idiot.”   
Sherlock leaned back in his chair and glared.  
“Don’t look at me like that, you know I’m right. Let me guess, your brother put this idiotic idea in your head?”   
David laughs when Sherlock seems to pout.   
“You both. I admire your brother and his efficiency. It’s why I wanted to work with him to begin with, but this is ridiculous. You two wouldn’t know happiness if it punched you in the face. In your case, it really did. He tells you it’s dangerous to John because it is but what he isn’t taking into account is that John doesn’t mind. You listen because you’re terrified. Of what exactly I’m not quite sure but you’re both idiots.”  
They sit and listen to the traffic outside until David says conversationally, “He wants you to go after him, you know. If you love someone, you don’t just walk away unless you’re hoping they’ll follow.”   
When Sherlock jumps up and grabs his coat, David smiles to himself. He begins to make himself some tea, shaking his head. 

“Excuse me? Sir? Are you alright?”  
It’s a woman with her small hand on his shoulder. John opens his eyes and looks into her worried face. He gives her a brief smile.   
“Fine. Just dozed off. Been a long week,” he says.   
She sits next to him. He’s mildly surprised but he doesn’t move away. “I know how that is. I’m a publicist. What do you do?”  
“I’m a doctor. Lately I’ve been helping out a friend who was in an accident,” he says with a nod.  
“That’s lovely of you!” she beams.  
John has almost forgotten normalcy. He’d given up girlfriends after the Christmas debacle and has since stopped looking. The woman next to him is normal. She’s wearing an ill-fitting suit that manages to make her look professional. Her hair is done but wind-blown and her makeup has worn down. She’s pretty in an unremarkable way. John smiles.  
“I’m John,” he offers her his hand.  
“Mary,” she replies, taking his hand. They shake and he looks out over the road.   
“I was heading for a pint, would you like to join me?” she asks shyly.  
He looks her over once more. Smiles. For one night, his life can be normal. “Why not.” 

Sherlock sees John before John can see him. He’s sitting on a bench. He looks as if he’s sleeping. Sherlock begins toward him. He doesn’t know what he’ll say. He tries to think of his words when he sees the woman. She touches his arm. They smile. She sits. They laugh. Sherlock freezes. He watches John stand and follow the woman. He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t know what he’d say. John is better off without him. 

John enjoys his evening with Mary. She doesn’t read into his beer, doesn’t snap at him for misunderstanding her and doesn’t exhaust him with her speeches. By the end, he’s smiling. He walks her home. She hesitates at the door.  
“Do you…want to come up? For coffee I mean,” she blushes. It’s a pretty color on her tan skin.  
“Yeah, okay,” he says before he can stop himself.   
He follows her up into her flat with only a twinge of regret.

Mycroft frowns as he watches John Watson follow Mary Morstan up the steps and into her flat. He’d meant it when he said John would be in danger. He hadn’t told his brother of the snipers. The hunters. Those that had split from Moriarty’s web before the web was destroyed. He simply wanted his brother to be safe as well as the only person his brother truly loved. He hadn’t meant for this. He watches the shadows in the window until his phone rings. Another emergency pulls him from the street but his mind lingers on what he has done.


	19. Chapter 19: No One But You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve always been more than normal. More than gentle love, something more violent and dark and needing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up! Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: This is my first try at smut, so hopefully you like it.

John woke on Mary’s couch with her lipstick smudge on his cheek and the stale taste of beer in his mouth. He shakes his head and groans.  
“Good morning!” she’s beaming.   
“Morning,” he replies, rubbing his head.  
“Would you like some tea? I don’t have to work today. I was thinking we could get lunch. If you’d like,” she says.  
She blushes and he smiles.  
“I have to head back to my flat, actually. I’m…moving.”  
Her smile falters but she nods. “Oh. Okay. Maybe dinner then?”  
He doesn’t know what to tell her. He nods. “Sure. Here’s my number. Let me know when and where and I’ll meet you.”   
He hands her his number scribbled on a scrap of paper and collects his things. He pretends he doesn’t see her frown as he walks out the door. He isn’t worth the trouble he’d put her through.

Sherlock hasn’t slept. He’s sat on the couch and then on his chair and even on the bare kitchen table but he hasn’t slept. David wasn’t up when he’d returned home. He didn’t know what he’d say if he had been. So instead, he didn’t sleep. He sat and thought and worried. When the door opens, he doesn’t move from his spot at the window and waits.  
“Well, I’m here for my things,” John says from the doorway. Sherlock doesn’t move.  
“You can take it back you know.” He sounds so close and Sherlock can’t move. He can’t move for fear of yelling. Of being angry.   
“Sherlock?” John touches his shoulder. Sherlock spins.  
“Is that what love is, John? Leaving?” he snaps.  
“You…you told me to go,” he shakes his head.  
“And going home with a woman on the same night? That’s not what I told you to do,” Sherlock’s voice shakes.   
John moves closer. “You followed me.”  
“Yes.”  
John smiles but it’s bitter. “You need to stop doing that.”  
“Why? So I don’t see you go home with someone else,” Sherlock doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’d told John to leave. He’d even told him he could find comfort with other women but it hurts somewhere deep in his chest to think of it and he’s so angry.   
John rubs his head. “You could have told me you were there, you know.”  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
“Fine. You know what, fine. I’ll get my stuff and go.”   
Sherlock watches him go and it feels as if his heart is being torn from his chest. He reaches without meaning to. Spins John toward him. Crowds him until his back hits the wall between the door and the kitchen. Leans in with a small growl and catches John’s mouth.  
John gasps but doesn’t push him away. He grips tight to Sherlock’s shirt and makes a sound in the back of his throat. Sherlock answers with his own feral growl, holding tightly to the back of John’s neck. It’s angry and sloppy but the heat is running through them and they can’t stop. Sherlock is desperate and John is angry. When John pushes back Sherlock is surprised. He lets John propel him across the room. He trips and they fall, barely missing the edge of the table. As they crash down, John ends up on top of Sherlock. Sherlock’s lip is bleeding but he looks at John with dazed eyes and a bruised mouth and he’s so beautiful it’s impossible to stop.   
John tastes the tang of Sherlock’s blood and it’s almost appropriate. They’ve always been more than normal. More than gentle love, something more violent and dark and needing. Sherlock groans as John’s knee slides between his legs.   
“John,” he gasps out as John moves down to bite and lick along his neck.   
If he didn’t know what it was to want before, he knows now. His back arches into the movement and John opens his shirt to kiss his chest. Sherlock can feel himself breathing roughly and he pushes at John to rip his jumper off. John allows it to be pulled over his head and their lips meet again quickly.   
“Sherlock,” he pants as Sherlock runs his nails down Sherlock’s back.   
“Sherlock, we’re on the floor,” he finishes on a moan as Sherlock’s fingers dig into his ass. They’re groin to groin and John rocks his hips before pushing away. Sherlock growls and reaches for him, his pupils wide in his eyes.  
“Bedroom,” John pants, “bedroom, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock is graceful even in his need. He stands and his shirt flies open to show his chest. There are scars from burns and what looks like knife marks. His body is slim and nearly flawless. John takes his hand and nearly drags him down the hall. He isn’t thinking anymore. He’d come back for his things, to confront Sherlock and make him admit he wants John and now he’s falling into Sherlock’s bed and Sherlock is crawling on top of him.  
“Mine,” Sherlock growls as his lips roam along John’s neck and down his shoulder.   
“Oh god,” John chokes out as Sherlock’s teeth nip along his nipple. Sherlock’s tongue, usually so sharp, soothes the bite and continues to restlessly move along John’s chest.   
“And you said-oh-you said you didn’t know this feeling. Jesus!” John is writhing underneath Sherlock. His hands, his tongue, his teeth and his lips overcome John until he’s a mess turning and moaning beneath the attack.   
“You bring this out in me,” Sherlock says as he slides back to catch John’s mouth.   
His body is long and bony, slim and tight and now hard. John is overwhelmed and he kisses Sherlock back with abandon.  
Sherlock pulls back and leans on John’s wrist. “You taste like her. Cheap beer and lipstick,” he snaps.  
John is pinned as he stares up at Sherlock. “I kissed her goodnight,” he gasps.  
Sherlock leans in and bites John’s bottom lip until John is lifting himself off the bed to give more to Sherlock.  
“You are mine,” Sherlock growls. He pins John to the bed with his weight and begins to suck on John’s neck. John feels the mark as it’s made and he can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to stop it. He moans and tips his head.   
Sherlock begins to work on John’s pants, trying to push them free. John feels his wrists released and he begins to push the shirt from Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock makes a sound in the back of his throat and impatiently shoves the shirt from his body before going back to his task. John grips Sherlock’s arms as his hand brushes the front of John’s pants.   
“You don’t get to kiss anyone but me,” Sherlock says almost angrily.   
“Right,” John says on an exhale. His pants are gone, abandoned to the floor. Sherlock shoves his own off impatiently.   
“Don’t touch anyone but me,” Sherlock continues. His hands trace along John’s hip and his fingers ghost along their joined bodies.   
“Course,” he grunts. He reaches for Sherlock and yanks him down. Their tongues battle until Sherlock pulls back. His hand has found its way into John’s boxers and John can’t see straight. His fingers trail uneven paths along Sherlock’s back and shoulders. It’s exquisite torture.   
“You only sleep in my bed,” Sherlock bites at John’s ear as his hand wraps intimately around John. John groans his approval.   
“God yes,” he moans.  
Sherlock smiles as he laps at John’s neck. He rubs their bodies together. Their legs are tangled, hips pressed together and now he knows what the big deal about sex is. His eyes see only John. John with his back arching, John with his eyes wide and deep, John running his hands along his back restlessly. John is beautiful and depraved and Sherlock feels only the need to devour him. He sucks on John’s collar bone until the man moans and writhes once more.   
“You belong to me,” he says. He isn’t sure John is listening. Isn’t sure he says the words out loud. They’re both too far gone. Their hips rub and Sherlock’s hand works at John who is making noises in his throat and thrashing under Sherlock.  
Sherlock can’t stop moving and he can’t stop watching John. It’s new and special and he can’t look away. He’s heard John through the walls, up the stairs but he’s never pictured his face. Never wondered what it would feel like to be the one to make the sounds break free. He is powerful and powerless. His hips jerk without his control but it feels so right he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t close his eyes. He watches each move, catalogues each sound. When John begins to huff and choke out moans Sherlock knows what’s coming. He pushes against John and realizes with a startled groan that John’s shaking hand has found his own excitement. Together, they work to share their pleasure.   
When John stiffens Sherlock is only seconds behind. Sherlock collapses on John. They’re panting, sticky and dazed. John laughs and lets his head sink back.   
“You learn fast,” he laughs.   
Sherlock slides off of him. Sits on the edge of the bed.  
“I’m sorry, John.”   
John stops laughing. “Sherlock?”  
Sherlock tosses him his pants and hands him a tissue. He’s wiping the warm mess from his own stomach and doesn’t turn.  
“Pack your things, John. Leave.”  
John stares at Sherlock’s back. There are marks from his nails and one is bleeding. He touches the mark. Sherlock flinches.  
“Just go. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”  
Sherlock’s voice is harsh. John who had felt so warm, suddenly feels as if there’s ice in his veins. He sits up.  
“Right. Yeah. I forgot. You don’t let people in. You’d rather be alone. Well fuck this then. Have a nice lonely life, Sherlock.”  
John gets to his feet and begins to collect his belongings. His shirt is still lying on the floor by the window but he doesn’t retrieve it. He packs his things tightly in a bag, not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock watches his feet. He doesn’t move when John storms by him. Doesn’t stand when he hears John pick up his shirt. He doesn’t lift his head when the door slams shut. He’s alone. 

John feels numb. He makes it to his old flat and drops his things on the bed. He’d continued to pay for it just in case and now he’s somewhat relieved. He lies back on the bed that doesn’t smell of anyone and winces when he feels something stuck to his chest. He hadn’t cleaned off the mess well and it’s dried to him. He smells of sex and of Sherlock. He can’t bring himself to shower. Drifting into sleep, he inhales the scent.

“Did you die of a broken heart?” the little boy asks.  
He’s no longer bleeding but John is. It pours from his eyes as tears. He nods. “I suppose I did.”  
The boy takes his hand. Squeezes. “It’s alright. You’re special, just like me.”   
“No,” John watches the moon shatter above their heads. It rains down sharp as pins. Sticks in his skin. “No, I’m not.” 

Sherlock doesn’t look up when David comes in. The man sits beside him and blows out a sigh. “So, I’m assuming that didn’t go too well.”  
Sherlock glances at him but drops his eyes quickly.   
“Or it went well….then it didn’t. What did you do?”  
“Why do you think I did something?” Sherlock snaps.  
David leans back on his elbows. “Well, because I’ve been living here over a month and I’ve noticed things about both of you and he wouldn’t have left unless you did something. Especially from the noises I heard. Hard to leave after that unless your partner is a git.”  
Sherlock’s eyes snap up.   
“You think I couldn’t hear you? I’d have to be deaf. I’m pretty sure half of London heard you.”  
Sherlock looks down defensively. David laughs.   
“Hey, it’s alright. We’ve all heard a good shag before. If anything, it makes us all jealous.”  
There’s a pause.   
“He’s back you know. Didn’t say where he was.”  
Sherlock frowns.   
“The other one. The guard,” David gestures to the hall. “He’s upstairs being secretive. Ruined my night in, but oh well. Something to be said about him when I’d rather be down here with you fixing your life.”   
“You can’t fix this,” Sherlock snaps.   
“No, I can’t. But you can. You can go after him.”  
Sherlock’s hands are shaking. “I need a cigarette,” he mutters.  
“Oh no you don’t. You’re still healing. No way are you doing something that stupid. Listen to me. Go after him. Find him. He wants to be here. Just stop being such a gigantic git and get over this insecurity already.”  
Sherlock opens his mouth as the doorbell rings. David pats his back and says, “I’ll get it.”  
Sherlock hears him go down the stairs. Listens to him greet someone. Moves to the top of stairs where he can’t be seen.  
“This isn’t the time,” David is saying to Mycroft.   
“Nonsense. I’m here to see my brother.”  
David blocks the door as Mycroft tries to enter.  
“And I said it isn’t a good time.”  
They stare each other down. “Right then. Where is Doctor Watson?”  
“Oh I think you know. You know everything, don’t you? You pulled his strings so he’d let John go. Rather cruel, wasn’t it? To destroy what makes him happy.”  
“Mr. Royce, I am not in the mood to play games. My relationship with my brother is none of your business and my ways of keeping him safe are not yours to understand.”   
“You think taking away the one person he loves will help him?” David asks with a small bark of laughter.  
“I think it will keep them both safe. I hired you to protect my brother, not just to watch over his health.”  
“And I know the threats that are posed but you hired me to protect him, didn’t you? I’ve helped him get better after that gunshot. Taking away John Watson isn’t going to help him; it’s going to make him more reckless. More of a danger to himself. You can’t hold all the pieces to the game, boss,” David shakes his head.   
“They were getting too close. It wasn’t safe. For either of them,” Mycroft says stiffly.   
“I think you should tell him the truth. You don’t need to tell John, just your brother. He’s killing himself over this. You might not see it, but I do. You hired me because I observe. Because I see. What I see is two people who need one another. You pull one away from the other and they collapse. If the two sides collapse, where will we be?”   
“If I tell my brother, he’ll try to hunt them down.” Sherlock leans closer. He listens.  
“Maybe he should.”  
“No. He isn’t strong enough. We can handle this but until then; John Watson is to be kept away from my brother. For both their sakes.”  
“I don’t like lying, sir,” David says stiffly.  
“Oh, but you do it so well,” Mycroft says. He’s trying to push past David. It’s time.  
Sherlock steps out. Mycroft looks up. “Ah. I should have known.”  
“What have you been keeping from me?” Sherlock asks.  
Mycroft looks him over. Sneers. “Oh, I see. Well isn’t that cozy. He’s gone, isn’t he?”  
“What have you been keeping from me?” Sherlock repeats. David leans on the wall.   
Mycroft lets his eyes trail to the floor. “The web has not been completely destroyed and everyone still alive knows your connection to John Watson. I fear if they find you, they will use him to get to you.”  
Sherlock begins to shake. “So you sent him away without protection?”  
“Don’t be daft. He’s protected. Who do you think took him home last night?” Mycroft sneers.   
“You sent him into the arms of you of your agents?” Sherlock is nearly shouting as he charges down the stairs. David puts his hand on Sherlock’s chest. His shirt still isn’t closed and his flesh is cold.   
“Quite brilliant, don’t you think? A kind woman to take him in. Protect him. Give him what you can’t.”  
Mycroft should have seen it coming but when Sherlock’s fist comes in contact with his nose he is quite surprised.   
“There is nothing she can give him that I can’t!” he bellows. Mycroft is leaning on the door dabbing at the blood. David laughs.  
“Can’t say you don’t deserve it, sir,” he says.  
“I can…fire you,” Mycroft says between dabs.   
“Yeah, but you won’t. Your brother actually likes me. What are you going to do? Send another Roger in here?”   
Sherlock is shaking out of anger, his hands still clenched in fists.   
“John is fine. He’s protected,” Mycroft says.  
“Where is he?” Sherlock asks. He leans over his brother with a snarl on his face.   
Mycroft stares up at him without answering. For a beat no one speaks.  
“Oh, come on then, I know where they are. Mary’s a good friend of mine. Lovely girl. Handy with a gun when needed as well.”   
David steps over Mycroft looking close to jolly and Sherlock buttons his shirts before following. Mycroft tips his head back and stands. He watches his brother and his hired help take off down the street. Motioning with his free hand, he steps into the car.  
“Follow them.” He snaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta's and for all those great comments that keep me going :)


	20. Chapter 20: Leaning Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock bursts out the back door and into the street. He stumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end! But don't worry! I'm planning some more fluff pieces that will be set in the same world. Maybe another story...

The streets of London aren’t as vibrant without John. Sherlock is following David through twists and turns. They pass the bench John had been sitting at the night before and continue on until David stops abruptly. “This is it,” he says.  
“She’s not really good with visitors. It’d be best if I go up first. Just stay here,” David says. Sherlock snorts.   
David bounds up to the door. When Mary opens it she scans the street before nodding to him.  
“What do you want, David? I’m working,” she hisses.  
“I’m here with…a friend. Is John Watson here?” he asks.   
“No, he wouldn’t stay. Went back to Baker Street. Not like I could tie him down, right?” she sounds annoyed.   
David laughs. “Not everyone can think you’re irresistible.”   
“No, but they usually do. He’s not gay, is he?”  
David chuckles as he answers. “No, but he is in love.”  
“Obviously. I did what I was told. Dressed like he’d like, spoke like he’d want and he still turned me down. Gave me a kiss and took the couch. Though I’d get a shag on this job. I’m so bloody sick of this. Can’t meet a good man because I work so much. Can’t get a shag with the men I do meet because there’s always something more important.”  
“Are you done?” David asks.  
“Yes, now who is this friend? I’m supposed to be meeting John in an hour, so hurry it up.”  
She is a beautiful woman. Sherlock can see that. She’s thin and curvy with long chestnut hair and big eyes. Even as she frowns, her lips look soft and Sherlock feels that if John could choose anyone it would be this woman. His brother would make sure of it. He’d make her what John wants and she would be perfect. He stalks up the stairs.  
“I’m Sherlock Holmes and the man you’ve been lying to is my best friend,” he snaps.  
David grins. “Mary, this is Sherlock. He needs to find John.” 

John is getting ready for his date in the quiet of his apartment. He doesn’t see the man on the street. He isn’t watching for him. He puts on his coat, slides on his shoes, checks his pockets and leaves without ever looking out the window. He’s left his gun on the desk. 

Outside, the man waits. His whole life has been destroyed. Slowly, the others have been taken as well. The only name he has left is Watson. John Watson. This will end tonight. 

Mycroft follows Sherlock and David. He knows Sherlock knows. He suspects that David suspects. He doesn’t care. London is dangerous at night. Despite what everyone might say, he loves his brother. He follows and he waits. 

Sherlock has always felt the thrum of London. It’s pulse. He fidgets and waits. He needs to find John.

“Look, I can’t just hand over John Watson. I’m on a job,” Mary complains. They’re in her flat and she’s putting lipstick on in the mirror. Sherlock feels uneasy when he sees the color. Knows it’s the one he tasted on John’s mouth only hours before. He wants to throw it out the window but he sits still and waits.  
“He isn’t yours, Mary,” David says.  
“No, he’s mine to protect. Mine to watch over. To shag if he ever gets over whoever it is that made him pull away. I was promised something this time. Bloody Mycroft,” she says.  
She’s cross and Sherlock thinks of throttling her. David clears his throat.  
“Can we forget the shag?” he asks nervously.   
She sighs. “I suppose so. Was a long shot, anyway. Too bad, he’s quite a nice man. Sad. Alone. Whoever broke his heart is a right wanker.”  
She’s putting earrings in when Sherlock stands.  
“I don’t have time for this. I’ll find him myself,” he says stiffly. David puts out his hand.  
“Sherlock, it isn’t safe to off on your own. Mycroft wants you both safe, you know. He doesn’t really want to destroy your life.”  
Mary freezes.  
“I highly doubt you can deduce what my brother wants no matter how good you think you are. Now, I will find John on my own. Good day.”  
He’s almost to the door when Mary speaks.  
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says softly.  
“You’re the one he loves. The one who broke his heart.” Sherlock inclines his head but doesn’t speak. She moves away from the mirror.  
“He was sad. When I met him, I mean. Your brother…he pointed me to him. Told me to be kind. I didn’t have to pretend to be kind. He’s a good man. He’s so sad. He didn’t say it, but I saw it. I offered to be with him, offered my body. He turned me down. That doesn’t happen much. Now I see why,” her eyes roam over him but when she smiles it’s kind.  
“You’re one of those that takes up a whole person, aren’t you? Like your brother. I loved him once. Suppose that was a mistake. Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t given in to it. You’re different though. You let him in. No wonder he didn’t want me if he could have you. You’re the kind to make a person star struck. You change their whole world and you might not even know it.”   
She seems to think and he takes her in. She’s like a chameleon, able to change her skin at a moment’s notice. Mycroft must have adored her in her time but like everyone else, she simply weren’t enough. John is enough. John is enough for an entire lifetime. He blinks as that sinks in. He’s an idiot.   
“Can you bring me to him?” he asks intensely.   
She looks him over. Sighs. “Fine. I might lose my job, but fine. Can’t stand in the way of true love, can I?”  
She slides on her heels, checks her watch and pushes Sherlock out of the way to get to the door. David follows.   
“Pity,” she says, “all the good ones are taken.” 

John is early to the pub. He finds a table in a corner and resolves to have a good time. He looks at his watch. Wonders if Sherlock has made the bed or left the mess. Shakes his head. It isn’t his place to worry anymore, Sherlock made that very clear. When the man comes up to him, he doesn’t suspect.  
“Hey mate, got the time?”   
‘Sure-“  
John finds the knife at his throat and he lets out a sigh. “Of course.”  
The man smiles. His teeth are black and rotting. John is reminded of his dreams.   
“Come with me Doctor Watson. It’s time for a trip.”   
John is pushed in front of the man out the back door. They stand in an alley for a moment.  
“Don’t know where to go from here, hm?” John asks.  
“Half expected some sort of protection. The great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t leave those he cares about unprotected.”  
John lets out a bark of laughter. “You’re missing some facts if you think Sherlock cares about me.”  
The knife fits snugly against his neck. “Oh I doubt that. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t share his toys from what I’ve heard.”   
John shrugs so the knife slices into his skin. “Believe what you like. You won’t cause Sherlock any pain if you kill me.”  
John can feel the man smile. “We’ll see.”

Mycroft watches Mary hustle the two men along the streets. She knows she’s being followed. She’s breaking her protocol. He can’t help but respect her as she looks over her shoulder, sees his car and smiles. 

As they reach the bar, David turns. “Listen, I’m here to protect you. Not John. If I need to…”  
He trails off and Sherlock turns. “No.”  
“Sherlock…it’s my job.”  
“And I’m telling you to stop doing your job and do what I tell you. You work for my brother but you live with me. You will protect John.”  
Mary smiles. “Honey, that’s my job. I’ll protect John.” She pats his arm. He frowns.   
He pushes open the door and strides in, already searching for John. Mary is a step behind him muttering about her job and appearances when Sherlock turns to her. “He isn’t here. Are we early?”  
Mary checks her phone. “Hm…no. He’s supposed to be here. Got a text that says he is. Odd.”  
Sherlock freezes. “Not odd. Bad.”   
David looks around. “Check the back door.”

Mycroft knows. He calls Lestrade. Tells him the story. Tells him the address. Watches in case he’s needed. Mary is a very bright girl and David is a shining example. He trusts them. 

Sherlock bursts out the back door and into the street. He stumbles.  
“Never seen you panic, Mr. Holmes. I’ve been telling your friend here you would come. He didn’t seem to think you would. Have a bit of a domestic, did you?” the man is large and solid. He smiles with rotting teeth. He has a knife to John’s throat.  
Sherlock can hardly think. He remembers Moriarty. All the work he did to destroy the threat and how much it had cost him. Now John, his John is being held by a monster and all he wants to do is step in his place.   
“Kill me,” he says carefully.  
“Oh, I will. Don’t worry, I will but I think I’ll kill him first. It’ll be fun to watch your face. Like this one here watched mine when he killed my brother.” The man gestures at David who looks mildly surprised.   
“Didn’t think you’d know me, what with all the crying,” David says. The man tightens his hold and blood slips down John’s neck.  
“Maybe not the best time,” Sherlock says sharply.  
Mary has a gun on the man. Her hands are steady. “Let him go.”  
“No, don’t think I will thanks. You can’t hit me without hitting him and he’s in your care. Little Mary. Like the little lamb?” he mocks.  
“That’s an American story,” she says tersely.   
“Oh yes, I know. But you’re from there, aren’t you. Little Boston girl playing at the tea party. In over your head, hm?”  
Mary looks surprised but doesn’t lower her gun.   
“The boss had files on you. Beautiful Mary. Smart Mary. The woman who loved the ice man. You weren’t worth the time. Worthless little girl from the slums. Came here for a new life, didn’t you? Is this what you wanted?”  
Her eyes harden and Sherlock feels respect swell up inside of him. His brother knew how to pick his companions.  
“No one’s left now. I’ve got nothing left to lose. So I think I’ll kill Doctor Watson. Then I’ll kill all of you.”  
John hasn’t spoken since they’ve entered the alley and Sherlock keeps his eyes on his face.  
“Alright, John?” he asks. His throat is tight.  
“Could be better,” he replies.   
“Right,” Sherlock says. He turns stormy eyes on the assassin.   
“Kill me. Doctor Watson is nothing you need. He’s a good man. He didn’t do anything wrong besides choose to share a flat with me. Hardly worth dying over.”  
He’s terrified. Not of his own death but of watching John die. He’s been close to death himself so many times. He’s learned not to fear it. But the drop of blood running down John’s neck is enough to make him insane.   
With a gun on him the man only laughs. He laughs at Mary and at David and especially at Sherlock. He has nothing left. He’ll make sure the detective doesn’t either. He doesn’t expect John to fight back.   
John shoves his elbow into the man’s groin. As he recoils with a grunt, the knife slices but not enough to kill. It leaves a bloody gash along John’s neck but he’s in action. He punches blindly and hits a nose. When he turns, there are sirens.   
Mary hasn’t moved. Mary. The woman he’d met the night before. Gone to her flat. Planned for more than he’d done with her. She’s standing with a gun trained on his assailant. She’s beautiful with her lips in a straight line and her hair free. He feels himself collapse. It’s all too much. David is moving to the man to check him for other weapons. The man is bleeding, his knife useless on the ground. Lestrade is coming, calling out directions and Anderson follows with Sally Donovan. The lights flash and they take the man away. Someone drops a blanket on him. Tips his head back. Cleans the cut.   
And in the middle of it all stands Sherlock. Tall, beautiful magnificent Sherlock. The man who pushed him away. He watches the ground. He waits. Finally, Sherlock approaches him. Lestrade is calling out directions and they sound tinny to his ears. Sherlock kneels in front of him.  
“John…John I…”  
Everyone is listening. They both know it. Sherlock seizes John’s face and stares into his eyes. His hair is still growing oddly and for a fleeting second, John thinks that maybe they should cut it now that the fuzz is longer. He focuses back on the moment. Sherlock’s eyes are boring into his.  
“John I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks.   
Everyone waits, holds their breath. John can see Mary with a twisted smile on her face. He looks back at Sherlock. Reaches for his hair.   
“Yeah, I know. Git.”  
Sherlock smiles and it’s heartbreaking. John can’t stand it. They’re so close and he loves Sherlock so much. But Sherlock has pushed him away so many times and he doesn’t know what to do. It’s Sherlock’s move. He waits.  
Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. They’re surrounded by people. By police and people hired by his brother. He’s looking into the eyes of the man he loves and he doesn’t know what he can do to make him come back. David sidles forward.  
“Mate, I think it’s a good time to kiss him,” he says under his breath.  
It’s all Sherlock needs. He pulls John to him. John cries out in pain as the cut on his neck stretches but he kisses Sherlock back when their mouths meet. He hears Sally Donovan cry out in surprise and Anderson make a noise in the back of his throat but he doesn’t stop. He touches John’s lips with his tongue and John opens to him. Sherlock doesn’t know how he had pushed John away. How he would have survived if John hadn’t forgiven him. He kisses John with relief and desperation. John kisses him with the same. John’s arms wrap around Sherlock’s neck and he grins when David cheers.   
John pulls back when Lestrade’s cough catches his attention.   
“Anderson, why are you even here?” Sherlock asks. He doesn’t remove his arms from around John.  
“I wanted to see the mess you made,” Anderson replies.  
“How did you even know we were here?” John asks Lestrade.  
“Mycroft called me. Said the last loose end would be here. Didn’t mean to get here so late.”  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course he did. Can’t help but meddle in everything.”  
“Well we’ve got it now. No more loose ends. You’re free.”   
John relaxes into Sherlock before standing. Sherlock looks up at him. He smiles as he walks to Mary.

She smiles with humility.  
“So. You work for Mycroft.”  
“Yes.”  
“Pity, that,” he says, looking past her. He seems disoriented. She turns so Sherlock is behind her. John smiles.  
“Knew I liked you,” he says.   
“Well, you don’t become a spy for Mycroft Holmes without knowing what someone wants.”  
They stand in silence for a moment.   
“He’s lucky, you know. You’re a wonderful man,” she offers.   
“I hear that enough,” he says with a laugh.  
She puts her hand on his cheek. “Well you are, John Watson, you are. He’s a lucky sod to have gotten you. But then again, it’s hard to forget a Holmes, isn’t it?”  
She sounds sad and he pats her arm. “Yes, I suppose it is.”   
David and Mary leave together as the police gather their evidence. They watch Mycroft pull away in his sleek black car. David links her arm through his. She smiles.   
“I’m not taken you know,” he says.  
She laughs. 

Sherlock is jittery and John knows it. He’s standing against the wall shaking his leg and watching. John stands beside him.   
“It’s alright,” he says.  
“No it’s not,” Sherlock replies.  
“No…no it isn’t. But it will be,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hand.  
They watch Lestrade lean against his car. Sherlock turns his head.  
“I can’t lose you, John. No matter how bad it gets. No matter where I end up. I can’t. When I…when I saw you like that…it should have been me. But it wasn’t.”  
He pauses. “I know it won’t be perfect. Is life ever perfect? I won’t change. I can’t promise I’ll be better; nicer. But…I love you. I love you and I can’t live without you.”  
John leans his head against the wall. “I’ve never asked for perfect or for you to change. I didn’t even ask for sex. You can’t push me away when it gets bad, Sherlock. If we’re together, we’re a team.”  
Sherlock squeezes his hand tightly.   
“I love you, you idiot,” John says without looking at him.   
The lights make the alley seem bright in the night. Sherlock studies the road.  
“And I’m not going anywhere.” 

6 months later  
“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” Sherlock is baffled. He shrugs his jacket back on and checks his tie.   
“You chased down a gunman and it’s our wedding day!” John stands in front of Sherlock with a frown but his eyes are smiling. Sherlock approaches him.  
“Oh, but you love it. So much more fun,” he says. He rights John’s tie.   
John kisses him quickly. “You’ll never hear me admit it,” he says.

“You just did.”   
John rolls his eyes. 

Sherlock is beaming when John meets him at the front of the room. They stand in front of a small group of family and friends. It’s their wedding day. They’ve been through so much in so little time it seemed pointless to wait. It wasn’t until Mummy Holmes got involved that it became a big party. Even with her sickness, she wanted to help. Mycroft helped to organize it and bought the rings as an apology to the two men for his meddling. He’d pulled John aside the day Sherlock proposed and gave his sincerest apologies for giving his brother the advice that made him push John away. John hadn’t found it quite as therapeutic as he’d wished but when David told him Sherlock had punched his brother for his hardships, he’d felt better.   
It’s their day for the first time in over a year. They’ve struggled and fought and it hasn’t been easy but finally, Sherlock is healthy and they are strong. For a long time Sherlock went through bouts of relapse. He’d have days where he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move his legs correctly and he was angry and sullen. John helped him through those days. On his good days he was his usual self and he and John spent hours in bed discovering each other in the most intimate ways. Sherlock found he enjoyed sex. John found he enjoyed sex with Sherlock. They’re happy.  
They stand in front of their friends and they promise their lives to one another.   
“Anyone who can’t see their love must be blind,” David jokes. He sits with Mary and holds her hand. She nods.   
They stare at each other. Two sides of one bridge. One without the other would simply collapse. They smile and when they are married, they kiss and everyone cheers. It’s normal but for once, normal is okay. Sherlock can’t stop smiling and John can’t let him go. They move through their friends as a single unit, noticing no one but each other.   
As night falls, John pulls Sherlock into the bathroom.  
“And what are we doing in here?” he asks.   
John pushes Sherlock against the wall and stands in his toes. “Getting a moment alone,” he says.  
Sherlock grins. “Why Doctor Watson, have I told you how brilliant you are today?”  
“It could stand to be mentioned,” John says.  
Sherlock laughs as he leans in. Their mouths meet and though they’ve done this so many times before it still feels new and perfect. Sherlock’s smile fits against John’s mouth perfectly. As their tongues meet, they forget where they are. It isn’t until David knocks on the door (“you do realize we all know you’re in there and I need to piss?”) that they pull away.  
They exit the bathroom to laughter and cat calls. Sherlock pulls John to him and they kiss for their friends and their families. It’s a slow kiss. A romantic kiss that promises more for later. The night becomes a long party of jokes and laughter and kisses stolen in dark corners and in the center of the dance floor (“I don’t dance. Don’t get used to this.”). When they stumble into 221B they hardly make it to the bedroom before their clothes are on the floor.  
With John above him, Sherlock knows who he is. This is right. When his back arches and his body cries out it’s the perfect moment and when John collapses on top of him, he tells him, “I love you.”  
And his body hums at the short breathed response, “I love you too.”   
There’s more to life than crimes and cases. When he holds John, he knows. Maybe someday they’ll retire together. Move to the country. Keep bees and read long novels sitting side by side. With John he can see that future. With John, there is more.   
It’s his wedding night and he’s content. When he closes his eyes, he dreams of clouds, of running and of John. Always of John. He smiles.   
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you for reading. Leave me a comment if you're interested in a longer story with John and Sherlock's wedding bliss (and kids? maybe? possibly?).


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